


Footsteps on Empty Floorboards

by AgonizedDaily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe: Voldemort never rose to power, Angst, Creature Fic, F/M, Ghost Stories, Horror, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Murder Mystery, Psychological Thriller, Tom definitely isn't human, Trans Harry Potter, Transgender, auror!Harry, technically, that's for sure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 116,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgonizedDaily/pseuds/AgonizedDaily
Summary: After a recent screw-up on the job whilst hunting a serial killer, Harry needs a break from being an Auror. His new Victorian house promises just that, but living with the restless spirit of a former Dark Lord isn't quite part of the peace and quiet he was hoping for.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 172
Kudos: 422





	1. This Old House

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I've always felt as if there was a lot of potential in the stories of the ghosts that Harry encountered in the original series that was never really explored or elaborated upon. I also felt that, with how much lore there is about ghosts in general, a lot more could have been done, a lot more color and depth could have been given to many of the darker beings of the Harry Potter series. This is my attempt at an exploration into that.

"Maybe it's time for you to take a break, Harry."

Harry tapped his quill impatiently against the parchment before him, shifting about uneasily in his desk chair before scratching out the last two lines in his report. "I'm perfectly fine, Ron. I'm doing deskwork. Deskwork is fine."

"Deskwork is busywork, Harry, and you're burying yourself in it to the point that you're not sleeping. Honestly, you're here later than anyone else in the entire bloody Ministry," Ron complained, leaning back dangerously in the chair he'd pulled up next to Harry's workspace in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "Seriously. You could at least get off a little earlier than usual, come have dinner with me and Hermione," he offered, giving a tentative, open smile as he let the chair legs drop back to stability on the tiled floor. He twisted around, resting his chin in his hands, elbows propped up on the edge of Harry's desk as he leaned forward. "We miss seeing you about, you know. It's been too long since the three of us have been together, even just for a few hours."

"I'm busy, Ron," Harry muttered, eyes focused on his work. "I'll come over another time." Ron's smile dropped.

"You know, you can't avoid this forever. You can avoid us, you can avoid your family and your friends as much as you want but you can't avoid what happ--"

The quill cracked between his fingers, splattering ink across his report. "Shit!" Harry swore, fishing around hurriedly in his desk drawer and finding a crusty old kerchief to mop up the mess.

"Harry--"

"I said I'm FINE, Ron!" he seethed, slamming his hand down on the desk. Parchment went flying and scattering off the surface, his ink bottle clattering to the floor and spreading black across the tiles alongside his desk.

Ron looked at him stolidly. "Yes, you're clearly perfectly good and stable, letting your magic get out of control like that."   
  
Harry stared tiredly at the mess of papers all over the floor, ink sopping into some of the older reports that he'd neatly filed earlier on in the night. "Maybe I could do with a change," he admitted, sighing and dropping back into his seat. He could feel the edges of a headache coming on, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose to alleviate the building pressure.   
  
"Maybe talk to your dad?" Ron suggested gently, "I'm sure he'd be happy to give you some leave off. Take a break, take a vacation. Hell, take a sabbatical and go see the world or something, you don't need to be here running yourself ragged like this." He reached out then, squeezing Harry's arm lightly. "I know it sucks, mate, but we can all see you're not handling this well. Something's got to give if things are going to get better."   
  
"I don't know what to do," Harry confessed. "I haven't really ever done anything except _be_ an auror."  
  
"Then maybe you need to just _be Harry_ for a little bit, instead? Find out who you are outside of the work again? Maybe get together with some folks, go play quidditch for a bit, see a game, pick up a new hobby or something. You don't really do much except work as it is, these days," Ron pointed out.   
  
"Yeah," Harry agreed reluctantly. "I'll talk to dad about it sometime soon."   
  
"Maybe tomorrow?" Ron suggested, nudging Harry with his elbow. "Don't put it off or you'll lose your nerve. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"   
  
Harry grumbled unintelligibly under his breath. What was the worst that could happen indeed? He had a good relationship with his father, though they'd grown a bit distant over the years. If anything, James would probably be all too pleased that Harry was even considering taking some time off or even lightening his workload, if the worried looks he constantly caught him shooting his way were anything to guess from. "I'll do it tomorrow," Harry relented.

"Great! Now why don't we clean up this mess and head over to me and Mione's for the evening? We can have dinner and chat about something other than work, yeah?" Ron flicked his wand and righted the ink bottle, its contents sucking back up and the lid stoppering itself to prevent further mishaps.   
  
Harry sank back into his own thoughts as he grabbed the papers off the floor, throwing them into some sort of loose amount of order before shrugging into his coat and following after Ron to the main hall of the ministry. As Ron tossed floo powder on the fire and it flared a bright, iridescent green, Harry wondered if this could really be such a bad thing, or if it would be that much worse: without work occupying his every moment, how would he handle being alone with his thoughts? With his memories?   
  


* * *

  
True to expectation, James had been alarmingly pleased at the idea of Harry taking some time to 'sort himself out'. "Take as much time as you need!" he'd insisted, practically shoving Harry out his office door with coat in hand. "Your work will be waiting for you when you get back; after all, those cold case reports aren't going anywhere on their own." Yes. Cold cases. Because he wasn't fit to work in the field in his current state. It made him wonder, as he meandered out of the ministry out onto the muggle streets, as to whether he'd ever really be able to be out on the streets again enforcing the law and helping folks who needed it. Harry shook his head roughly and focused on the changing street lights as stopped on a corner. He was too caught up in his own head, Ron was right. He needed to stop focusing on what was going on and try to think more about doing things he enjoyed, things that were grounding.   
  
He lasted about a week at home before he escaped to his godfather's. 

"What did you do, when you graduated?" Harry questioned, sipping tentatively at the tea that Remus had placed before him.   
  
"Me?" Sirius responded, slapping a cast iron pot down on the stove and filling it with a gout of water from his wand, "I took a gap year. Rode around the country with nothing but a backpack and my bike, seeing the sights. Wish I'd taken more pictures of that time, now that I think about it," he said, frowning. "Your grandmother was real disappointed that I didn't go straight into Auror training like James did, but honestly I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with myself. And well, we've all seen how well I deal with bureaucracy, since that didn't really work out."   
  
"What about you, Remus?"   
  
"Well, I wasn't exactly...easily employable, admittedly," Remus sighed, leaning back in the chair opposite Harry at the kitchen table of No. 12 Grimmauld Place. "You know how our society frowns upon lycanthropy. Foolishly, at one point, I pursued rumors of individuals who'd been cured. Most of the rumors lead to hacks and conmen, but eventually that pursuit fell into the study of defense against the dark arts, in a very generalized way. I'd drop in every now and then to see how everyone was doing, but I felt like I'd already imposed myself a bit too much on others."   
  
"Good thing we knocked some sense into you about seeing yourself as a burden," Sirius retorted from over by the stove. Remus smiled softly to himself at that.  
  
"Harry, whatever you decide to do, we'll support you in it," Remus reassured. "I know you've always wanted to be an Auror like your father and you fought hard for that, but there are other paths in life. If this isn't what you're meant to do, the answer will come to you in time. I know patience isn't your strong suit, but if you give this time to breathe, to heal, then perhaps you'll be able to come back to your career with renewed vigor."   
  
"I'm only taking a month, Remus. It's not like I'm quitting," Harry groused.   
  
"I know, Harry," Remus soothed, "All I'm saying is that you don't need to push yourself to be in perfect working order so quickly."   
  
"You could borrow my bike," Sirius suggested. "It's old now, but it's still pretty reliable. Get out there, do something you haven't done before. Go find some new adventure!"  
  
"Or some peace and quiet," Remus added.   
  
"Maybe that's a good idea," Harry agreed, thoughtful. "I just...thanks for letting me stay here for a bit. I just couldn't really put up with the way everyone at home is watching me like...like I'm made of glass or something."   
  
"Maybe it's time you found a place of your own?" Remus suggested.   
  
"Why would he ever need to do that, he's got us, and he'll inherit the Potter's Cottage eventually," Sirius cut in.   
  
"Sometimes a bit of separation and independence can be healing, Sirius, as I'm sure you also know." Remus set down his tea mug, leaning back in his seat. "Or it can provide the room one needs to grow into their own."

That really rang true, if Harry thought about it. He'd felt a bit stifled, admittedly, living with his parents after graduating. It had only been five years since he found his footing in the DMLE and six since he'd graduated Hogwarts, but maybe Remus was right. It was about time he moved out. After all, Ron and Hermione were living together in their own place already.   
  
"I don't know what I'm going to do," Harry confessed. "but I'll figure something out."  
  
"That's the spirit, Harry!" Sirius grinned. "Things will work out for the better, in the end." 

* * *

'For the better' turned out to mean Sirius pestering Harry into taking his bike and an old expanding tent and going on a road trip around the country. At first Harry was more than a little annoyed at being rushed off out into the unknown, but the longer he spent riding about on Sirius's old motorbike the more he felt the tension drop from his shoulders as he relaxed and began to just enjoy the passing scenery. He took his time as he got out of the city and began wandering into less populated areas, stopping occasionally to eat or just to appreciate the countryside. Later the first evening, he found that the tent Sirius had packed for him was very dusty, but quite cozy once the internal woodstove had been lit with a magical fire. 

Traveling alone was a new and surprisingly freeing experience for Harry. Growing up as he did, there was a certain anxiety that came with the idea of traveling alone or being out in any sort of deserted area at night; there was always a subtle fear that he'd be seen as defenseless and that some opportunistic man might decide to take advantage of the lack of witnesses to do harm, but as he grew older and went through a number of significant changes, people's perception of him had changed as well. Unfair as it was, he knew that he had a certain advantage in being perceived as a man. Despite this, his paranoia won out and he laid out a ward around his camping location but he soon settled in for a long night without much trouble. 

Harry lay awake for some time, thoughts meandering over the events of the past few days with reluctant acceptance. He didn't know where this would lead him or how long he'd travel for, but maybe Sirius had been right. Even if Harry wasn't gung-ho about taking some time off for himself, it already seemed to be doing him some amount of good. 

* * *

_A small hand rested slackly on the alley cobblestones. Filmy blue eyes stared, half-lidded and unseeing from a round, pale face. The body was long-cold, dumped next to an overfilled trash can like so much garbage just like the last one had been, dressed in the same blue nightgown she'd been wearing the night she disappeared from her bed. A tangled, dirty ribbon had unwound from one of her braids and lay slack. She hadn't been killed here, but the cause of her death was clearly marked by the heavy bruising around her neck. He crouched down slowly beside the body, hands shaking as he reached out and brushed a stray lock of messy red hair from her face. Her eyes flickered then, and he fell back as his horror built, his throat closing up and breath catching in his lungs. Patricia Weasley's flat, dead gaze locked onto his as her head turned. "You didn't come save me, Uncle Harry. I kept calling for you and you never came."_

_"I'm sorry," he choked out, "Patty I'm so sorry! We couldn't find you, we looked for weeks!"  
_

_"Why didn't you?" she asked, fingers grasping for his as the body rose bonelessly. "I needed you!"_

_He scrabbled back across the cobblestones until his back hit the alley wall but still she crawled forward, dragging herself across the ground, eyes unfocused, hands reaching, grasping as she drew closer..._

* * *

Harry woke with a scream on his lips and hands flailing for his wand only to fall off the bunk with his sweat-soaked bedsheets tangled about his legs. He lay there on the floor, sobs wracking through his body. He didn't know how long he stayed there as he blinked away the lingering image of Patty's bloodshot dead eyes, fighting down the rising urge to vomit as he dragged the back of his hand over his forehead and found it slicked with cold sweat.   
  
Finally, he disentangled himself and shakily set about making a hot cup of coffee--there was no way he was sleeping again after that. Pushing aside the tent flap he stepped out into the soft, hazy light of morning just before the sunrise. It had been about a week since he'd last dreamed of it; a week of traveling about on Sirius's bike and trying to outpace the grief and overwhelming feeling of failure that had been plaguing him in the months since Patty's body had been discovered. 

Suddenly feeling very vulnerable with his emotions stripped bare and nothing to distract himself or hide behind, he dumped out his coffee and went back inside to throw on his clothes then collapsed the tent and packed it up onto the bike. He needed to go. He needed to be anywhere but here. 

Harry mounted Sirius's bike and kicked off the ground. The bike soared into the air and hung there momentarily, floating high above until the old back roads seemed like nothing but little lines across the patchwork countryside. Condensation formed on Harry's glasses before he took a deep breath and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, sending the bike careening through the air. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do once he got there, but that didn't matter in the moment. 

When Harry finally slowed down and alighted the bike down on a winding dirt road he had no clue where he'd come to land but he let the motorcycle continue on at a leisurely pace, his breathing calming as the overwhelming feeling of panic faded. After a while he passed an old, battered sign, and brought the bike to a stop before it. Beneath the weather-wear he could just barely make out the lettering. 

_CANESWORTH_

Beyond stretched a series of rolling hills with a few scattered old stone cottages, distant farmland stretching off in one direction, bordered by a sprawling forest that rose alongside the small village to turn into rocky cliffside off in the distance. Harry could smell salt on the air; the ocean wasn't far from here. Just beyond the sparse village, seated with an arching view over the whole area he could see the roof of an old Victorian hidden amid the trees. 

He parked in front of an old run-down pub that looked to be the only business in the area for miles and stood there, looking off at the distant house near the cliffside. It took Harry a moment to realize why the architecture struck him as oddly familiar, until he walked a bit closer and realized that while the house itself looked fairly sturdy, there was something about the tilt of the roof, the twisting curve of a side tower that reminded him distinctly of wizarding architecture. He stood there for a bit, studying it, before turning about on his heel and heading into the bar and walking up to the counter. 

"Excuse me," he began, addressing the bespectacled fellow who was cleaning a glass at the sink with an old rag. "I was just driving by and saw the house up there on the hill. Do you know who lives there?" 

"Nobody lives there," the muggle responded, "That place hasn't been occupied in decades. Why?"   
  
"Just curious," Harry responded, "it looks to be a very beautiful house."   
  
"Some things that are pretty to look at have a bite to 'em. I wouldn't be planning on doing anything but admiring from a distance, if I were you."

"Is it private property, then?" Harry questioned. 

"Not really, at least not legally anyway," the bartender shrugged. "The cliffside's dangerous up there, most folks with any sense know better than to risk it." 

"Right," Harry hummed.   
  
"You gonna buy something, or you just here to gossip?"   
  
"Do you sell any food?" Harry questioned. He might as well have something to eat...he'd certainly missed breakfast, with that early morning ride. 

"I can throw some eggs and bacon on the grill," the bartender responded gruffly before stumping off to do just that. 

Harry settled into a seat by the nearest window, looking out towards the house in the woods. There was something so very curious about it, nestled up there away from the pastoral village below. Something very, very curious indeed.


	2. Blackbarrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As we venture deeper into this story, more discrepancies will come to light from the point at which I branched off from the original timeline of the world of Harry Potter. Bear with me here, as I'll be doing a bit of worldbuilding to flesh out the setting in which this story takes place.

Harry returned back to No. 12 Grimmauld Place that same day. Somehow it felt like his time to travel had ended; he'd found something far more interesting to occupy his time and his mind. That old house on the hillside just wouldn't leave him alone. His curiosity had most certainly gotten the better of him, and he found himself in search of answers to half-formed questions. Was it a wizarding property? Who had owned it? Why had it been abandoned? He wasn't really that much into doing heavy research, but he knew that Hermione would tell him that the best place to start when you have an unanswered question would be to seek out a library. Coincidentally, the Black library was full of all sorts of different books (including several of questionable legality) that may be of use. Harry scoured the shelves until he found a few that seemed at least vaguely related to the subject at hand. Unfortunately it seemed that the more he read, the further away he got from the answer he was looking for. Each book that held even the smallest tidbit of useful information only raised more questions, more problems to think about if he was taking this seriously. Though really, what was 'this' that he was doing? What was this strange drive he had felt ever since he'd laid eyes on the place, like it was calling out to him to come back?

He sighed, leaning back on the sofa and tenting the current book open over his face, feeling defeated and no closer to figuring out what he wanted than he had been when he'd first set eyes on the old decrepit building.   
  
"My, you've got quite an odd pile of reading material there Harry," Remus noted, dropping into the seat opposite him with a book of his own. "Taking on a new project?"  
  
"Maybe," he hummed. "Hey Remus, how do you find out if a property is wizarding or not?"

Remus tapped the cover of his book thoughtfully. "That's a good question, Harry. Usually they're passed down from one family member to another, but you can probably check the Ministry registration of different wizarding residences if you're looking for somewhere specific."   
  
"There's also a few realtors out there who've got properties for sale," Sirius added, leaning over the back of Remus's chair and wrapping his arms around his neck. "Why are we talking about houses?"   
  
"Harry was just asking how to tell if a house is wizarding or not," Remus explained. "Though admittedly I am curious as well what brought about this subject."   
  
"Well I've been thinking about what you said, about finding a place of my own," Harry admitted, flipping a page in _Babbington's Guide to Household Spellwork_ before setting it aside. "I found a place while I was out on the bike--an old abandoned house in a small muggle village, but I think the house is wizarding. The local I spoke to said the place hasn't been inhabited for decades, so I was wondering about what happens when wizarding properties are abandoned or where to start looking if I wanted to find out who the owners are now."

"That would certainly be an undertaking if it's not been inhabited for many years. All sorts of common magical pests may have moved in in the absence of humans," Remus warned.   
  
"Really though, that might be just what I need," Harry said, frowning as he picked up the next book (which looked significantly more promising than the last) and began thumbing through it.   
  
"A project?"   
  
"A place that I can make my own. Somewhere to come home to that isn't just an intermediary between sleep and more work."   
  
"Where is this place located?" Remus inquired.

"A little village called Canesworth, not far from the seaside. Not much out there but sheep and wheat fields, but the area's pretty. The house is up on a cliffside overlooking the village."  
  
"I'd say that there's a bit more information to be gathered before we could do any investigation into who owns the property. I'm sure you've gathered from the DMLE that ministry record keeping can be either exhaustively minutely detailed or completely disorganized and sparse. We'll be able to find records though, if we're lucky."   
  
"We?" Harry questioned, glancing up from _Historical Houses and their Architectural Origins by William Ghastly._

"Well you didn't think that you wouldn't have any help if you took on an enormous project like that, did you?" Sirius sniffed. "Of _course_ we'd help!" 

Harry grinned. "Really?"   
  
"Yes really, you dolt," Sirius teased, dropping backwards over the couch to lie upside down, his feet slung over the back.   
  
"Sirius that really is _not_ the proper way to sit on a couch," Remus observed. 

Sirius ignored him. "Tell you what. Why don't we go check this place out on my next day off? We can see if we can't find anything useful on the property that might point us towards a current owner, if you're looking to buy." 

"You really don't have to do that, I can go myself or get Ron to come with and check the place out."   
  
"It's no trouble," Sirius waved him off, "And besides, it's been ages since I got to hang out with my godson!" 

That was more than enough to win Harry over. 

* * *

Three days later saw Harry side-along apparating Sirius, then Ron (who had taken Remus's place after hearing about Harry's discovery, as it was nearing a full moon) to stand before the weathered wooden sign just outside Canesworth. "Do you see it? There, on the hill!" Harry exclaimed, pointing out the curve of the old Victorian's rooftop from among the trees.   
  
"Woah, you weren't kidding when you said it was high up," Ron murmured. "That's gonna be a hike."   
  
"Well then we better get going," Sirius said, grinning as he hiked the old wizarding camera he'd brought along up on his back.   
  
It was indeed a difficult trek to get to the house. The bartender certainly hadn't been joking around when he'd said the area was dangerous. The way up was rocky and full of scraggly tree roots to trip over and unstable stones underfoot. Beyond that any hint at a former pathway up to the house from the village had long since overgrown to the point of being unusable, so they had to make their own route.   
  
"This better be worth it," Ron groused, hauling himself up a particularly large jutting rocky outcrop.  
  
"You'll definitely have to have a proper path built if you want to have any access at all to the village," Sirius agreed, reaching out a hand and pulling Ron up the rest of the way.   
  
"We might have been better off if we'd just thought to bring brooms," Ron sighed. "Oh well, hindsight and all that."   
  
"Come on, we're almost there," Harry urged. "I think it's just up ahead." The unsettling feeling he'd had, that deeply-burning desire to go back to Canesworth and make his way up to the old house on the hill again was growing heavy in his chest, flaring up until it became near-unbearable. He picked up the pace with one foot in front of the other, scrambling over every obstacle in his way. It was slow at first, but the closer he got the more the urge grew until he was walking faster, then running, outpacing Sirius and Ron together as he whipped through the forest, uncaring of any branches that caught and tore at his clothes as he made his way up the hillside.   
  
"Hey Harry, wait up!" Ron called out, but Harry barely heard him as he broke through from the treeline into a glade of tangled overgrown grass and bushes. And there it was. The Victorian manor loomed before him, three stories tall with peaked rooftops missing shingles here and there, windows yawning open with knocked-out panes looking for all the world like a gap-toothed grimace. It stood before him like a mummified husk, but beneath the aged exterior there were such _beautiful_ bones. 

The decorative gabling along the roof was still in good condition and the aged, peeling paint on the surrounding front porch hinting at a beautiful array of colors that had once graced its surface. At the entry was a large oak door that had been _hand-carved_ with serpentine designs along the paneling, finished with a cast-iron door knocker and handle. A rusted-over set of matching iron chairs and deck table sat on the porch, regretfully not having been spared from the vagaries of time. Everywhere he looked there were signs that someone had paid close, careful attention to the construction of this place and in each small way they could find, had beautified it. _Clearly,_ Harry thought to himself, _someone had loved this place deeply._  
  
"Oh wow," Ron whispered, coming to a halt behind him. "You really didn't do it justice when you told us about it, you know."   
  
Sirius whistled, resting his hands on his hips. "It's definitely a dump. Still, it's got potential."   
  
They stood there in silence for a few passing moments, just taking in the look of the building before Sirius shifted. "Well, let's have a look about the place, shall we?" Taking his own suggestion, he walked past Harry and Ron and straight up onto the deck, peering in through one of the broken windows. "Hard to see much inside, it's very dark, but it looks like there's even still furniture in it," he observed.   
  
Harry stepped forward, carefully approaching the building and making his way up the front steps.   
  
"Whoever owned this place was real big on the snake motifs," Sirius noted. "Probably a former Slytherin."   
  
"You think it's a wizarding house, then?" Harry asked, reaching out and tracing his fingers over one of the serpents curling around the door handle.   
  
"Oh undoubtedly. Have you ever seen a muggle house this ostentatious and over-the-top? I mean, look at the towers on the sides, those couldn't possibly have held up without magic supporting them. Hey be careful there Harry, don't touch the doorknob. We don't know if this place has any protections on it."

Even as Sirius said it, it was too late and Harry had closed his fingers around the handle. He felt something spark, and then an overwhelming _rush_ of magic wafting over him, leaving him feeling a bit like he'd just run a few laps in the middle of a desert in the dead of summer. His knees buckled, and Ron, who was closest, rushed to catch him. 

"Harry! Harry, hey there, you still with us? Talk to me," Ron urged as he grasped Harry by the shoulders, worried eyes gazing into his. 

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but it came out as a dry croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I think it was...testing me, or something. It didn't feel dangerous."   
  
"Oh well it didn't _feel_ dangerous, that's great," Sirius drawled. "Let's not try that again, shall we? I'm pretty sure whoever owned this place wasn't a light wizard."   
  
"Or witch, could've been a witch," Ron added.  
  
Harry stumbled to his feet, recovering his breath a bit as they talked. "Should we look for a house number or something like that? Some sign of who the previous occupant was?"

"It might be a start," Sirius agreed. "I mean if I wasn't too concerned about the bloody place being cursed to hell and back now, I'd suggest we break in and take a look around--don't give me that look, Harry, nobody's lived here in ages to be mad about it--but it's probably best to figure out its history and then if you _are_ able to get the place, to hire a professional cursebreaker to go through it and remove anything dangerous."   
  
"You _are_ a professional cursebreaker, though," Ron pointed out.   
  
"Exactly," Sirius said, grinning. "You could hire me."   
  
Ron scoffed. "Come on, Harry, let's take a walk around the back and see what state it's in." 

After a good few hours of searching about the manor's exterior, they hadn't found much new information to work with. It wasn't until Harry was sitting down on the front porch steps (which were questionably sturdy, but held his weight well enough) that he felt something hard shift under his shoe. He reached down and picked the object out of the dirt. "Number 16," he recited back absently, rubbing the dirt off the bronzed house number that had fallen from the porch some time ago.   
  
"Number sixteen, Canesworth," Sirius hummed. "Well, it's better than nothing." 

"Would that be enough to find it in the Ministry archives though," Harry wondered.   
  
"If we're lucky, we might be able to identify it by the architect, actually." Sirius murmured, looking at the curling serpentine corbels holding up the roof. "This is some very fancy woodworking that not a lot of wix would be capable of."  
  
"Why snakes, though?" Ron questioned.   
  
"Probably somebody real proud to be a Slytherin, I'd bet," Sirius shrugged. "But I'm pretty sure whoever it belonged to, they weren't a light witch. Nobody light would be so bold about this sort of imagery." Stretching lazily, Sirius grinned. "Well, we aught to take some photos of the place in the meantime to help identify the place." With that said, Sirius set about the arduous task of assembling the overly-complex wizarding camera some distance from the house to take a frontal shot.   
  
Harry stood, pocketing the house numbers thoughtlessly and wandering up the porch to peer in through one of the windows. It was difficult to see through the filter of dust and dark shadows, but he could make out hints of furniture, much as Sirius had said, scattered about. He stood on tip-toe to glance in through one of the broken panes of the window, then paused. A cleaning charm on the glass wouldn't hurt, would it? _"Scourgify,"_ he whispered, flicking his wand. The glass cleared, and Harry bent down to glance through once more. It was still difficult to see, but a simple _lumos_ was enough to resolve that. Inside he could see the dusty remnants of an elegant living room, a fireplace on the far side of the wall bearing carvings very similarly matched to the exterior door. Old wainscoting that could do with a polishing stretched across walls that had been painted a deep, velvety green above, a few sparse picture frames dotting the walls. An old cloak or coat of some sort was tossed carelessly over the back of a burgundy sofa. A high-backed armchair was pulled up close to the fireplace, an old rug of indiscernible pattern carefully laid out before it. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. The house lay still and empty. It clearly had been untouched for many years, as if the original occupants had simply walked out one day and never returned.   
  
"Ron, come look at this!" Harry called out.

Ron loped over, crouching down by the window. "What is it?"   
  
"Look at the interior. It doesn't look to be in too bad of condition, does it?"   
  
"Woah," Ron murmured, staring through the window. "It's like a time capsule!"  
  
Something shifted in in the doorway just past an old bookshelf. Harry jolted. "Did you see that? Something moved--"   
  
"Of course something did. There's probably all sorts of magical pests that have taken up residence. Wouldn't be surprised if you came across a few gnomes around here, maybe some doxies or something. I'm sure Remus will have some ideas to help, though."   
  
"You talk like I've already decided to try and buy the place," Harry noted.   
  
"Haven't you?" Ron questioned. "You're already trying to figure out who it belongs to and it doesn't seem like you're doing it out of idle curiosity, or we wouldn't all be here."   
  
Harry balked, but relaxed a bit as the realization struck him that Ron was right. He was already looking at the damage on the house and wondering about what sort of spells would be needed to give the place a bit of a fix-up. "Maybe," he responded, thoughtful.   
  
"I can't wait to show Hermione some of the pictures," Ron enthused. "She'll be so happy for you."   
  
"How's she doing?" Harry questioned, leaning back against the wall of the house next to the door.  
  
"Oh, she's generally cranky and insists on bringing all her work home with her because she refuses to let a little thing like pregnancy stop her, you know how she is. She'll probably work right up to the birth. She can't wait for the baby to be born though, she keeps complaining that she's had it up to here with being pregnant and it's only been a few months," Ron laughed. Harry grinned back. It was strange to him to watch his friends marry and start the beginnings of a family together, but they were happy and he couldn't help but be happy for them in return. Still, thinking of children just reminded him of Patty these days and he found himself having to choke down a bit of nausea.   
  
"I'll have to stop by and say hello soon," Harry agreed, shaking his head to rid himself of that train of thought.   
  
"You better or Hermione will have your head," Ron teased. "Besides, it's good for you to get out and focus on something else. You seem more yourself today after just a week's break than you've seemed in...a long time."   
  
"Do you think we'll actually have any luck with the Ministry?" Harry questioned in a hasty change of subject, pushing off the wall and walking down the front steps toward Sirius.   
  
"Dunno mate," Ron responded, clearly recognizing the danger of going down that path of conversation and accepting the shift. "We can only try and hope it works out. But you're a damn good detective on your own, I'm sure with me and Hermione backing you up you'll figure it out in no time."   
  
Sirius picked up his camera and hauled it across the lawn to another position, angling it upwards to the upper floors of the manor. "I don't think it'll be that hard," Sirius waved off, throwing the cloth of the old camera over his shoulders and ducking under to look through the lens. "Only thing that would throw a wrench in is if the place is unplottable, then there might not be much record."   
  
  


* * *

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Potter, but there is no record of a Number 16, Canesworth. I searched our files up and down and there's no mention of such a place."   
  
Harry sighed, rocking back on his heels. Of _course_ it would be too much to ask for it to be easy to locate the current holder of the property's deed. Hermione patted his shoulder. "It's alright Harry, we'll just have to keep looking elsewhere."   
  
The archivist pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger. "I can, however, tell you a few things from my observations of the photographs you provided us with." Harry and Hermione both leaned forward up to the counter, focused on every word. "It is most certainly a wizarding residence as you observed, probably from the early- to mid-eighteen-hundreds judging from the architecture. The woodwork was most likely done by a prominent artisan of the time by the name of Edward Gricht. You may have some luck seeking records from the remaining Gricht descendants as to the origin of the property itself." The lady sniffed, grabbing a pile of papers and beginning to flip through them. "Best of luck to you, Mr. Potter." And with that, they were dismissed.   
  
"It's a good clue," Hermione said comfortingly, walking at Harry's side as they made their way out of the Ministry. "We can work with this."   
  
"I'm not concerned, Hermione, I have a good feeling about this," Harry responded, and he did. There was something just a bit exciting about the chase, about sleuthing for answers. "Let's see where this takes us next."

  
  
As it turned out, it next took them to a tall, spindly old building with a bright red front door. Its only decoration was an old worn door knocker with a face carved on it. The house was nestled on a side-street just off Knockturn that was the current residence of Agatha Gricht, the last remaining descendant of the old artisan's family. Harry stepped up to the door and reached out, tapping the knocker heavily. The knocker yawned and stretched then demanded in a grating, aged voice, "Yes well who is it? Who goes there! Go away, the lady of the house is busy!"   
  
"Please, we're here to talk to Agatha Gricht. It's about one of her relatives," Hermione said politely. "Could you let her know that we're here?"   
  
The knocker grumbled to itself, chewing on its bottom lip momentarily before it groused, "Fine, fine! AGGIE YOU HAVE GUESTS, COME GET THE DOOR!"

There was a distant crash from inside followed by slow, heavy steps and the thump of a cane. Several moments passed as the noise approached before the door swung wide, nearly clipping Harry's nose. "Yes, what is it?" Agatha's voice was a soft, tremulous whisper of a thing as she stared out at them from beneath her wrinkles.  
  
"Hello ma'am," Harry said, nodding to her politely. "My name is Harry Potter--I've come to inquire about a property that your relative may have had a hand in designing. We're trying to locate the current owner as it's since been abandoned."   
  
"My relative?" she questioned, blinking in the daylight as she thought for a moment. "Oh! You must mean Uncle Eddie! Do come in," she gestured with her cane, shuffling back away from the door. "Do you like tea? I've got a nice Earl Grey that's quite lovely with a bit of sugar and cream."   
  
Harry followed her in tentatively, Hermione trailing behind him. The house was old and cluttered beyond livability, but the elderly woman navigated it seamlessly, toddling into the small kitchenette and pulling out three delicate bone china teacups with shaky liver-spotted hands. Hermione stepped in before she could drop them, gently placing them and their accompanying saucers on a small bit of uncovered space on the counter that wasn't piled with junk, then located the kettle on the stove and filled it with a quick gout of water from her wand, clearly a bit mistrustful of anything that would come out of the tap in this part of town.   
  
"Well aren't you just a dear," Agatha chortled, pulling out a seat and slowly drawing her wand, clearing the table with a slow flick of her hand and sending the odds and ends to go pile in a corner against the wall. "It's been some time since I've had guests I'm afraid, so I do hope you don't mind the state of things. So," she said, leaning forward and clasping her hands primly on the table. "Tell me about this property you're looking for."   
  
Harry fished in his coat and pulled out the photographs Sirius had taken. "It's been abandoned for several decades," he explained. "It's located in Canesworth at number sixteen. We went to the Ministry genealogical archives to see if we couldn't find the owner--I'm interested in restoring the property."   
  
Agatha dragged the photos across the table to her, picking them up one by one and holding them up close to her face. "Yes, I know this place."   
  
A rush of excitement surged through Harry as he leaned forward over the table. "You do?"   
  
"It's Blackbarrow Manor," she announced, slowly setting down the photograph, "Home to the Gaunt family, before they went bankrupt. They were barking mad, the lot of them."

The tea kettle let out a high pitched shriek, steam whistling out its vent. Hermione rushed over to the stove and turned it off before setting it on a cool burner. "The Gaunt family--weren't they one of the sacred twenty-eight?"   
  
"They were," Agatha nodded sagely. "Considered themselves to be 'the purest of the pure,' they did. So pure that they only bred in their family line."   
  
Hermione made a face, and Harry shuddered. "They died out, didn't they?"   
  
"Last I heard," Agatha agreed as Hermione set a cup before her, delicately reaching out and raising it to her lips.   
  
"Did your uncle keep any records, any blueprints or any such things?" Harry questioned.   
  
"He did, though they're probably long since lost."   
  
"Who would the house have fallen to if the Gaunts went bankrupt?"   
  
"It was probably sold to pay their debts. The last Gaunt to really dabble in society circles was a terrible gambler. Squandered away every last bit that was left of their fortune while insisting on living in the lap of luxury himself. Mobius Gaunt was killed in a nasty duel over settling some petty money squabble, that's the last I ever heard of the family. There should be a record of the sale however if you feel up to braving Gringotts."  
  
That was _exactly_ what Harry was looking for. "You've been a great help, Ms. Gricht. I was almost worried we were coming up on a dead end in our search," Harry confessed.  
  
"Of course my boy," Agatha chuckled. "I may be old but my memory's still just as sharp as a whip. Perhaps I'll keep an eye out on those blueprints for you, as well. It's not often I get called upon these days, you see--I'd be happy for you to drop by anytime for a nice chat. I've got plenty of stories about the families my uncle worked with."  
  
For the next hour Harry and Hermione remained there with Agatha as she regaled them with stories of the house's construction--how Mobius Gaunt had constantly changed his mind about what should go where, resulting in the very disorderly building of various rooms and passageways. "If there is a blueprint, it's sure to be a doozy," Agatha laughed. "I wish you the best of luck if you undertake restoring the place--the construction was a mess to begin with."   
  


* * *

  
The next day led Harry to the office of Ulgor, Master of Documentation at Gringott's Bank. The goblin scratched at his cheek as he sifted through an incredibly long filing cabinet. "It's here somewhere," he muttered to himself. "Blackbarrow, Blackbarrow, Blackbarrow--yes, here it is!"   
  
Harry leaned forward in his seat as the goblin stumped back to the enormous desk in the center of the room, stepping onto a pile of books and scrambling back into the chair, dropping an enormous old tome onto the burnished leather top. He couldn't help but tap his foot impatiently as the goblin sifted through the pages, turning each individual one with agonizing slowness.   
  
"Sold by one Mobius Gaunt to Aurelia Carrow, whose descendant Devonius Carrow in turn sold it to one Tom Marvolo Riddle in nineteen-forty-nine."   
  
"So this Riddle was the last holder of the house's ownership?"   
  
"He is, yes."   
  
"So it's currently in his family line's possession?" Harry questioned.   
  
"Mr. Riddle does not have a family line, Mr. Potter," Ulgor observed. "He is the last of his own line and the property remains in his name--but in the event of his death it is noted that it would fall to the purview of Mr. Riddle's barrister--one Hadrian Crick--as to who the deed of ownership would go to. I would suggest then that your next step would be to go to Solomon and Crick on Fletching Street off Knockturn."   
  


* * *

  
The business of Solomon & Crick was located in a dingy little second story office filled from floor to ceiling with books and scrolls. Harry had walked in feeling hopeful and excited, but it was immediately stamped out as the wiry little man seated before him regarded Harry over his glasses and announced, "I cannot help you, Mr. Potter."   
  
"I haven't even--"   
  
"You are not the sort of fellow who would seek out my business," Mr. Crick stated, scratching out a few lines with his quill unconcernedly, "Unless you are deeply in need of legal council over matters which would typically land you in rather hot waters."  
  
"I'm not here for legal council."   
  
"Then the door is jut to your left," Mr. Crick announced. "Good day to you, sir."  
  
"I'm here about Tom Riddle."   
  
Crick's quill stilled, dropping off into a sudden dead silence. "Come again?"   
  
"I'm here about Tom Riddle, Mr. Crick. There's a property that was in his name that I'm looking to buy."   
  
Crick shifted in his seat, laying his hands flat on the table before him. "It's been some time since I've heard _that_ name," he murmured, tapping his fingers on the desk's surface. "Alright, tell me then. What is it that concerns _you_ in relation to Mr. Riddle's assets?"  
  
"Blackbarrow Manor," said Harry. "I'm looking to buy it and restore it."  
  
"Blackbarrow Manor is unplottable and lost to time, Mr. Potter. No-one knows where it's even located today."   
  
"Well I do," said Harry.   
  
" _Do you_ now. Do tell how this came about," he encouraged, steepling his fingers before him and regarding Harry with brows drawn together, a deep frown accentuating the crags of his face.  
  
"It was sheer coincidence, really," Harry admitted, "I was driving through the countryside and just stumbled across Canesworth and saw it up on the hillside."   
  
"How curious."   
  
"What's so curious about it?"   
  
"The only ones who can _see_ Blackbarrow, Mr. Potter, are the ones who know that it is already there."   
  
"Well maybe the spell's worn off, then."   
  
"Perhaps," Crick hummed, "Perhaps. And perhaps you were meant to find it, Mr. Potter." He leaned back in his high-backed seat and regarded Harry with sharp, beady black eyes. "Let me look through my records and locate Mr. Riddle's will. He had very specific instructions about what was to be done with Blackbarrow Manor, though we were unable to carry them out after his disappearance."   
  
"His disappearance?" Harry questioned, surprised.   
  
"Why yes Mr. Potter, were you not aware?" Harry shook his head. "Mr. Riddle disappeared in nineteen-fifty-six, just a few years after purchasing the property. It subsequently 'fell off the map' so to speak. No-one knows what happened to him but by all assumption at this point, Mr. Riddle has passed. A body was never found."  
  
Harry felt a cold chill pass through him. "So it's just been left there since then?"   
  
"No-one could access the building," Crick explained, "Anyone who tried to apparate to the area was splinched--so I don't recommend trying it yourself. A few of his close associates managed to get onto the property and searched the place, but he was never located. As Mr. Riddle never turned up, the property was left as-is." Crick neatly placed his quill in its holder. "I will search my records and owl you when I find anything of import, Mr. Potter."   
  
He could see the dismissal for what it was. Harry shrugged back into his coat and stepped out onto Fletching St. It was a cold day but Harry barely noticed it. It felt like something had bloomed inside him--hope perhaps--at Mr. Crick's words. Even as the potential rose for him to come into ownership of the place, more questions were placed before him. Who was Tom Riddle, and what had happened to him to disappear so thoroughly from the wizarding world?


	3. A Change In The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Listening for this chapter:  
> Dark Pastoral for Cello & Orchestra by Ralph Vaughn Williams.  
> Cello Concerto in E Minor, Op 85: I. Adagio by Edward Elgar  
> 

It wasn't long before Harry grew tired of waiting to hear back from Mr. Crick. He found himself pacing about Grimmauld Place, unable to get the thought of Blackbarrow out of his head. He went and visited Ron and Hermione for dinner. He returned home another day and helped his mother prepare their garden for the incoming winter weather as Autumn grew colder and the days shorter, but still no word came. 

The night was chilly and frost was beginning to gather on the windowsill of his bedroom when Harry decided he had had enough. He took his Nimbus off the rack, threw on his heaviest coat and grabbed a pair of goggles and a knit scarf and gloves (an old gift from Mrs. Weasley) and walked outside. He slung a leg over his broom and kicked off from the ground, rocketing up into the sky. Once he had reached a decent height the broom evened out and he leaned back and brought it to a hover. Harry raised his wand and murmured, "Point me." There was a gentle pull at his hand, a small light flickering from the end of his wand tilted in the direction he desired, and off he went.   
  
There was something so very freeing about flight; hanging in the air with just a short, easy drop between life and death, wind whipping his hair into his face as he hunched down against the cold and launched forward. He bolted over hills and fields at top speed as if a bludger were on his tail. A breathy, wild laugh tore from his lungs as he burst through cloud cover, condensation trickling over his goggles. Time passed in a blur of speed as he paid little attention to his surroundings, focusing only on the pull of the spell until he could see the dotted lights of small cottages and farmland stretching in soft, dark masses below before giving way to a sharp, angled treeline. Canesworth was comfortably asleep in the dead of night as it should be.

Amid the stillness one solitary light flickered eerily from the topmost window of Blackbarrow Manor.

Harry angled his broom to pull around in a wide arc toward the manor and slowed down to a lazy crawl as the building jutted from the darkened landscape before him. He came to hover carefully, not quite so close as to be easily seen from the attic window and cast a disillusionment charm before drawing in to look through the cracked glass. The light was faint but steady enough for him to see that the room was empty save for a wide selection of boxes and other bits of furniture that had been stored there. A wooden chair was positioned just so before the window as if someone had been recently seated there, looking out over the land below.   
  
He could have sworn someone was inside the house. Harry flew down to the front, resting his broom against the wall beside the door and without thinking, reached out and grasped the front door handle. 

A surge of magic poured through him at the instant of contact, rooting him in place. Every last nerve felt like it was on fire. It hurt so much that he could barely register the scream that tore from his throat, and then just as quickly as it had come, the pain dissipated. Harry dropped to his knees, holding himself up by the doorknob alone as he caught his breath. The palm of his hand was covered in burns. It felt stiff and immobile; he could only manage the barest twitch of his fingers. "Shit," he hissed, shoving his hand deep into his pocket. Well, he would certainly be taking a trip to Mungo's later that day. 

The click of the lock turning in front of him drew his attention back to the door as it creaked open a few bare inches. "That's...strange," Harry muttered, hauling himself back to his feet. With his caution returned to him, he cast a silencer on the door's hinges and carefully pushed it open to slip inside. 

Harry was greeted with an open entry hall with velvety peeling plum wallpaper, lights flickering into being in glass-covered wall sconces one by one before him as he stepped forward, welcoming him in. A small chandelier had fallen from where it once hung overhead, bits of crystal glittering on the floor as they were caught in the flickering light, casting rainbows over oak floorboards and a dusty gray rug that had once been beautiful. Off to his left was a small open closet where a variety of cloaks and old coats hung, a few pair of sharply-pointed boots resting there, all neatly lined up on the floor on top of a small mat. Opposite that was a beautiful floor-to-ceiling mirror, surrounded by serpentine wood carvings, their coils tangled amid blooming flowers.  
  
The stillness of the place seemed to hang in the air like a tangible haze. Everything was coated in a thick layer of undisturbed dust but, much like the exterior, Harry could see that beneath its age this place was still as elegant as it had been when its last owner had been present. And, notably, it didn't appear that anyone had entered the house this way in decades. _So who was up in the attic?_ Harry thought, frowning. "Lumos," he whispered--not to disturb anyone, but the silence of the house itself seemed to call for delicacy as he penetrated further into its empty rooms, his muffled footsteps throwing up little puffs of dust with each step forward.   
  
Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Harry turned sharply to face an empty hallway, but a creak from up above drew his gaze to the curve of the rising stairwell, just in time to catch the hint of a shadow on the wall slipping around a corner.   
  
"Hey!" he called out, setting off up the stairs in a rush. Never mind that this was private property and he himself was already trespassing, he felt as if it was simply _wrong_ to disturb this place without precedent--and the concern that it may be some muggle teens breaking in to vandalize an old abandoned property--and potentially exposing themselves to the magic of the wizarding world in the process--sparked alarm deep in his stomach. "You there, come back here!" 

Whomever the intruder was, they gave no response. Harry thundered up the stairs, wand drawn in preparation to obliviate. He found himself in an empty hallway on the second floor, a shadow disappearing around a corner toward the end of the hall. Curving around the corner, Harry arrived just in time to see a door click shut midway down the hall. Hurriedly, he rushed over and threw the door open wide, surging into the room to confront the intruder only to find himself faced with an empty study, a lit candle flickering merrily away, undisturbed, at the desk in the center of it all. The room itself was located in one of the curved towers on the side of the building, a good half of its wallspace surrounded by tall, arching windows with diamond-shaped, latticed panes. The desk itself was clear save for a single scroll, neatly laid in the center, a quill resting beside it as if simply waiting to be picked up again.   
  
It was immediately clear that there was no-one present in the room, but Harry could have _sworn_ that he'd seen someone enter. Then again, Remus had warned him that such a place could have garnered any number of unwanted magical beings and pests when lying abandoned for such a lengthy time--it wasn't a far stretch to expect that he may have seen one such creature flitting about. He'd have to drop by the Pest Advisory Board over at the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and do some research on how to deal with such things.   
  
The candle on the desk flickered, drawing Harry's attention. The scroll, just to its right, shifted on the desk, unrolling a tad in a way that couldn't possibly have been a trick of the wind. Harry's breath caught in his throat. He approached with slow, careful steps until he stood behind the imposing piece of furniture, looking down at the scroll. A cold chill passed over him, and the candle flickered violently before suddenly growing dim as the air in the room became heavy and oppressive. The ribbon on the edge of the scroll came undone entirely before Harry's eyes, allowing the parchment to uncurl before him as if guided by an unseen hand. Something here, whatever it was, wanted him to see its contents. Taking a deep breath and gearing himself up to be prepared for anything and everything, Harry bent down over the desk and began to read.   
  
It only took getting through the first two lines for Harry to realize that this was in fact the deed to Blackbarrow Manor, having been placed there as if left waiting for him alone.

There was no way that this was a mere coincidence. It was too perfect. Harry felt like every nerve was screaming at him. Something was wrong here. But even with that overwhelming sense of dread boiling in his stomach, he couldn't help but feel like this was meant to happen, and nothing cemented that further than when the scroll rolled all the way open to the bottom, curling up at the top to make room on the desk. He felt as if someone leaned past him, shouldering him lightly out of the way. The quill rose from where it lay on the table, the barbs of the feather crinkling as if under the pressure of a delicate hand, and it proceeded to neatly dip itself in the inkwell and write out:   
  
_I, Tom M. Riddle, do hereby authorize the sale of No. 16 Blackbarrow Manor to one Harry J. Potter for the sum of thirty-thousand galleons.  
  
_ With an elegant flourish of the quill the document was signed, _Tom Marvolo Riddle._

Harry choked. Perhaps he'd been right--this place wasn't empty at all. Some remnant of the former occupant remained behind. Tom Riddle was most likely--most definitely, judging by what he'd just witnessed--long dead, there was no way a dead man could approve such a thing let alone write a legally binding document, and yet there was his signature, the ink drying on the parchment before him.   
  
"Are you...still here?" Harry questioned aloud, but there was no answer. The house lay as silent and hushed as winter snowfall, dust filtering through the air around him as the candle died away, leaving Harry's world lit by nothing but pale, feeble moonlight.   
  
Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Harry snatched up the scroll, rolling it up hurriedly and shoving it into his pocket before proceeding out of the room and back down the stair. Something told him not to run, though everything in him was urging him to do so.   
  
Harry immediately mounted his broom, ensuring that the deed was secured in his coat pocket, and made his way with great haste to Hermione and Ron's residence at Mossy Creek.   
  


* * *

  
"And the quill just picked itself up and wrote this out," Ron clarified, spreading his hands on the kitchen table.   
  
"Just like that," Harry nodded tiredly, explaining it for the third time that morning. "Something's not right with the place. Crick told me that Tom Riddle--the previous owner--went missing. Just disappeared one day."

"So this might be a case of a spirit of some sort still remaining on the property," Hermione said simply, setting a plate of bacon, toast, and eggs before Harry. "It's quite rare for a spirit to be powerful enough to physically affect their surroundings--poltergeists can, but they feed off of the ambient magical energy of any youths in the area to do it. Eat something Harry, you look positively dreadful and I bet you barely slept on top of all of this."   
  
"You talk like it's such a simple matter," Harry groaned.   
  
"Well it is really," Hermione observed. "Whenever there's an issue between any _otherworldly occupants_ of a property and the home's current tenants, it's up to my department to help resolve the problem. Typically things can be worked out between both ghost and current owner and we don't have to attempt banishment. Ultimately though Harry, it's up to you as to whether you want to risk having to negotiate with a restless spirit. If Mr. Riddle had the wherewithal to recognize what you wanted of the property when you came onto it, I'm sure he is fully aware of the place falling into disrepair around him and he's incapable of maintaining it without a proper witch or wizard's assistance. No ghost wants the place they're haunting to collapse around their ears, I'm sure, even if they're bitter and standoffish to anyone else using the residence, but that doesn't seem to be a problem here. I'm sure he has a very good reason for attempting to offer the sale of the house to you and taking such effort as to locate the deed and pass it to your possession--though you are right. It is all very coincidental that you just happened to take a jaunt over to the place tonight and the deed just happened to be ready and waiting for you. But he was probably hoping you'd come back, to set it up there like that."  
  
Harry scrubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes sleepily and let out a heavy sigh. "This is a _lot._ "  
  
"Do you feel as though you don't want the place anymore?" Hermione questioned.   
  
"Well no of course I still want it, but...this is another unknown in a growing list of strange things."   
  
"Then do you think it isn't worth it?" Hermione asked gently, resting her hand momentarily over his. "You're already undertaking a very big project as it is by pursuing the property with its current condition."   
  
"I'll think about it," Harry grumbled, but in his mind he knew he'd already decided. The unknown could be frightening but that had never stopped him before and it certainly wouldn't now. "I just don't know how I feel about the idea of having a--a roommate, I suppose. Let alone one that can't or won't move out if prodded."   
  
"It's a big place," Ron noted. "You probably wouldn't even run into him half the time unless he's going out of his way to pester you." He shoveled eggs into his mouth, chewing for a moment before he talked through his food, "Mebbe 'oo shood try an' fin' more aboot 'oo 'ee was?"  
  
"That's a good place to start," Hermione agreed thoughtfully, squeezing Harry's hand before going to fix her own plate of food. "If you know more about him you can get an idea as to what it may be like to have him as company."   
  
"Yeah," Harry hummed, stirring his plate's contents around with the fork in his left hand, squeezing the fingers of the right one in his pocket--feeling had returned to it, but the blisters still ached. "All I know is that he owned it for a few years and then disappeared, but there's got to be records of him."   
  
"Maybe you could start with his case file?" Ron suggested, "There's bound to be people who were interviewed, someone who reported him missing who knew him, things like that. It's as good a place to start as any, and since you're assigned to cold cases right now it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to ask after him."   
  
Harry nodded, staring sullenly down at his plate. This was turning out to be a much bigger, much less pleasant undertaking than he'd first hoped--but then again the entire process of pursuing the property had been done on impulse, so part of him wasn't surprised that things weren't turning out quite the way he'd expected. He hadn't really had any particular expectations in the first place except that restoring the place would give him some distance, occupy his thoughts and his time, and give some much-needed time to himself. He wasn't sure how comfortable he felt with the idea of sharing that space when he'd been looking for solitude to begin with.   
  
"Sorry for dropping in so early in the morning on you both like this," he mumbled.   
  
"It's no trouble at all Harry, we're here to help any time you need us," Hermione soothed.   
  
"Wot 'ermione said," Ron agreed through a bite of toast.   
  
"I have a few books about ghosts and how to live with them back at the office. I'll go pick them up for you later today. You might find them enlightening if you read them," Hermione advised. 

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, giving her a small smile. "I'm sure it will work out somehow."   
  


* * *

  
Harry heard from Mr. Crick the very next day, an owl arriving in the early afternoon summoning him to his office.   
  
"I was able to successfully locate Mr. Riddle's will," Crick explained, "however it indicates that in the event of his death the property would have fallen to one Abraxas Malfoy, Sr. If you wish to purchase the property you will have to speak to his inheritor, as he passed it to his son upon his death."  
  
"Lucius Malfoy?" Harry repressed a groan. "Great. I'll never be able to get it, then."   
  
"I took it upon myself to reach out to Mr. Malfoy to inform him of the property's location having been rediscovered. I also mentioned to him _who_ discovered it, and of your interest in the property."  
  
"What did he say?" Harry questioned, leaning forward in his seat.  
  
"Very little, admittedly," Crick said, waving a hand irreverently, "but he did express that if you were to speak with him directly he would hear you out. Notably Mr. Malfoy has attempted to visit the property and has found its wards raised--he is unable to enter the premises despite his ownership. Curious, isn't it?" Crick grinned, face stretching wide with delight.  
  
"But that doesn't make sense," Harry burst out, "I was just there yesterday-"  
  
"You returned to the property?" Crick queried, affixing his eyes on Harry with a leer. "Tell me everything."  
  
Harry recounted what had happened carefully, though he left out the injury to his hand.   
  
"You found the deed? Do you have it with you?"   
  
"I do, but...it was strange. Very strange," Harry explained. "It opened right up on the desk in front of me, and the quill wrote out a few lines." He handed the document over. Crick unrolled the parchment with great care, scanning it carefully. Harry shifted anxiously in his seat as Crick's eyes reached the bottom of the document. "Impossible," he murmured. Drawing a thin mahogany wand, Crick cast spell after spell upon the parchment, until he finally fell back heavily in his chair, staring at the scroll. "It's genuine."   
  
"You're sure of that?" Harry asked, gripping the arm of the chair tightly with his undamaged hand.   
  
"Positive." Crick let out a breathy laugh. "Not a hint of him for decade after decade, and now this."   
  
"Pardon?"   
  
"There was no trace when Mr. Riddle disappeared, Mr. Potter. But perhaps with all of this we will finally learn what befell him." Crick rolled up the scroll and set it on his desk. "Are you free this evening Mr. Potter?"  
  
"I suppose so, why?"   
  
"Lucius will want to hear this from the source," Crick explained, lifting from his seat and marching over to the floo, tossing a handful of powder on the flames and calling out, "Malfoy Manor!" He stuck his head through and Harry distantly heard him addressing someone. "Yes, I'd like to speak with Lucius post-haste if you will. Do go fetch him and tell him it's Crick calling with something of great interest." He withdrew his head and glanced at Harry before his attention returned to the emerald-green flames as a house elf popped their head through.  
  
"Master Malfoy is present and says you may step through Mr. Crick," the house elf stated, sparing a curious look to Harry. "Will your guest be coming as well?"   
  
"Yes, yes," Crick nodded. "Tell him I'm coming through with Mr. Potter."   
  
The elf withdrew her head from the fire, and Crick ushered Harry up out of his chair, scrambling over to the fire. This was _certainly_ not what he'd expected of his day, Harry thought, but if it meant getting some answers then he'd go to Malfoy Manor anytime. The flames flared bright around him as he stepped through, coming out on the other side from a massive hearth onto a marble-tiled floo entry. Lucius Malfoy stood with one hand neatly pocketed and the other resting lightly on his cane, regarding Harry with an inscrutable expression that had his stomach turning nervously.  
  
"Mr. Potter. Crick tells me there's been a development," he observed, glancing past Harry as Crick stumbled out from the fireplace behind him.   
  
"There most certainly has Lucius, Mr. Potter here was given Riddle's will _by Riddle himself_ by his account."  
  
The Malfoy family head raised one delicate blonde eyebrow, regarding Harry with a slight frown on his face. "Did he now." He turned on his heel and called after him, "Come, we shall discuss this in my study."   
  
  
Lucius seated himself in a large velvet-backed chair, an enormous hound lying beside it as he crossed his legs and regarded Harry primly. "Tell me exactly what you told Mr. Crick, Mr. Potter."   
  
Harry recounted the story once more a bit tiredly. He carefully watched Lucius's expression for any change, but he gave little away.   
  
"And the deed. You have it?"   
  
Mr. Crick fished about in his coat momentarily before withdrawing it and handing it to Lucius, who unrolled it and carefully read through the document in its entirety while Harry tried not to fidget in his seat. After reading the last few lines and staring very long and hard at the deed, Lucius rolled it back up and set it aside.  
  
"It seems that a decision regarding the fate of Blackbarrow Manor has already been reached. The property will go to you Mr. Potter, should you have the finances for it."   
  
"I do," Harry stumbled out, "I mean--I want to restore the place. Somewhere like that shouldn't be left to rot."   
  
"And you are...at peace with sharing the property with such a figure as Mr. Riddle?"   
  
"Honestly, I don't know much about him," Harry admitted. "But I'm willing to try."   
  
"He was a very great wizard, Mr. Potter. He had the potential to do incredible things here in the wizarding world. You are an Auror, yes?" Harry nodded. "Then I will be frank with you. The circumstances of Mr. Riddle's death are of _particular_ interest to individuals such as myself and those who know of him to any great extent. There are still many people questioning the events that led to his disappearance and some people would pay rather handsomely to find out what happened to the man."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't make any promises, Mr. Malfoy, but I do work primarily on cold cases. If I turn anything up hopefully we can put an end to the mystery of what happened to him."  
  
"I would hope that you do, Mr. Potter. Meet me at Gringotts at 9-o'clock sharp tomorrow morning, and we will have the sale officiated." 

Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "You're going to let me buy the place? As simple as that?"   
  
Lucius regarded Harry with a expression that left him feeling as if he was being judged and found rather wanting. "Yes, Mr. Potter. As simple as that. It certainly leaves me wondering _why_ Mr. Riddle would wish the property to fall into your hands, but I will respect his wishes."  
  


* * *

  
Harry didn't know whether he wanted to jump for joy or rush out and immediately share the news with Sirius and Remus. He left the Malfoy Manor in a bit of a daze and went straight to Grimmauld Place to share the news. He was more than a little surprised when it turned out that Sirius and Remus were having his parents over for dinner, but he ended up breaking the news to the lot of them at once. 

"I find it more than a little suspect that Lucius Malfoy was so quick to agree," Remus hummed.   
  
"It is all rather unusual and not very like him," Lily murmured. "I know I keep asking if you're sure about this so I won't ask it again, Harry. I just wonder if there isn't more going on under the surface here than there looks to be."   
  
"Maybe so, but we'll deal with whatever may come along with it," James reassured, clapping Harry on the back. "We can worry about it later. Let Harry enjoy the windfall that's come his way a bit before we start fretting over what-if's."   
  
"I have a very strong suspicion that this Riddle character may have been a dark wizard considering the company he kept," Remus noted. "I definitely agree with Hermione and Ronald--you should do some more research into him." 

"I plan to," Harry acknowledged, ducking his head a bit as Sirius squeezed his shoulder. "This is all happening so fast, I honestly don't know what to make of it."   
  
  
The rest of the evening passed in a bit of a blur as Harry settled in for the night. Before he knew it, the night had passed and it was time to meet with Lucius to officially purchase the property. He got up, showered hurriedly and pulled himself together as presentably as he was able, and then apparated off to Diagon. Upon arriving to Gringotts he found himself being ushered to a back room off the central entryway, where Lucius and Mr. Crick were waiting for him. It all happened rather quickly, really. The goblin at the desk droned on as they read through the deed--Harry barely registered half of it as he was hit with the growing realization that he was making a very, very big decision here--and finally announced, "Well, everything appears to be in order. Mr. Malfoy, you simply need to sign below in conjunction with Mr. Riddle's signature, and then Mr. Potter, you will sign as well. This document," he explained, pulling out another piece of parchment, "is the bill of sale for the property, which you will also both sign."   
  
Lucius signed the paperwork with a swift, sure gesture of his hand. Harry's signature (mostly-healed thanks to a salve his mother had given him) was a bit shakier--especially when he realized that the quill was biting into his hand and drawing his signature in blood.   
  
"There you have it then," the goblin announced. "The amount of thirty-thousand galleons will be transferred from the Potter vaults to the Malfoy vaults today. Mr. Potter--we were able to recover a set of keys from Mr. Riddle's vault for the building, which now belong to you." The goblin placed the ring of old keys on the table. Harry picked them up dazedly. "Congratulations on your purchase," she said pleasantly.   
  
"That's it then," he murmured.   
  
"It is," Lucius nodded. "Good day to you, Mr. Potter." He tipped his head in a polite nod and swept out of the room. 

Mr. Crick appeared at Harry's elbow, fidgeting excitedly. "If you have any questions I do hope you will send them my way," he said cheerfully. "We're all looking forward to these new developments coming into play."   
  
"Who's 'we'?" Harry questioned, but Crick was gone before he could comment, leaving Harry alone in the office.   
  
The goblin regarded him stolidly over her spectacles. "Is there anything _else_ I may help you with, Mr. Potter?" she questioned.

"Ah, no, I think that will be all," he fumbled, making a hasty retreat from the office. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone in the entry hall. The bustle of Gringotts going about business as usual continued on around him, completely irreverent of the life-changing event that had just taken place. He had _bought a house._ He was going to have his own home to shape and mold as he pleased. He'd have a place to come back to: a getaway from the expectations of the wizarding world, an escape from his failures. Half of him felt like he didn't deserve it. The other half felt as though he'd just gotten himself into something far bigger than he'd bargained for.   
  
Harry wasn't certain what to do with himself next. He wandered aimlessly down Diagon, bought some never-melt ice cream from Fortescue's, and eventually headed back home to Godric's Hollow and idled away the hours until his family returned home, rolling the key ring around in his hand as he thumbed absently through one of the books about ghosts that Hermione had dropped off earlier on and wondered what his life would be like in the coming days.   
  


* * *


	4. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Listening for this chapter: The Isle of the Dead Op. 29 by Sergei Rachmaninoff

Early the next morning just as the sun was rising, Harry and his mother apparated over to the Burrow to borrow Arthur's Ford Anglia. George twirled the keys around his fingers and chatted lightly with Lily while Molly packed a hefty bunch of sandwiches, potato salad and some fresh fruits into a basket for their lunch, occasionally shooting worried glances at Harry, who ignored them. "I do wish I could come, but I've got to hold down the fort here," Molly sighed, "Percy is going to be dropping by later and well--you know how he's doing, with everything, I'm sure." Molly sniffled surreptitiously as she packed a fourth sandwich into the basket. "Has there been any--"

"I'm not on the case anymore, I can't give you any updates," Harry snapped waspishly then withdrew, embarrassed at his own outburst. This was exactly what he'd been dreading, coming by the Burrow even just for a few moments. "Sorry, Molly, I'm just as frustrated and upset with this as all of you are. I'd rather not talk about it, if it's alright with you."

"Of course," Molly fumbled, "My apologies for bringing it up. I know it must be hard, with everyone looking for answers."

And finding nothing. Not a hint, not a clue as to who was kidnapping children and leaving their bodies scattered about Knockturn. Harry shoved off from the table and walked out before the conversation could continue any further, heading out to Arthur's shed where he kept all his inane little experiments with muggle technology. Arthur himself was cleaning off the windshield of the Ford Anglia as Harry approached. He patted the powder-blue door frame affectionately, glancing up as he noticed Harry. "Ah! Harry, my dear boy, is everything all set?"

"Almost, they're still packing up a thing or two," Harry answered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and glancing away.

"Then why are you out here--ah."

"Yeah."

"Molly can be a bit talkative when she's upset," Arthur said knowingly, pocketing the rag he'd been using.

"She means well," Harry sighed, though the stab of failure that shot through him at her words certainly didn't feel like it.

"Good intentions are all very nice," Arthur nodded, "but that doesn't change their result." He gave a forced, over-bright smile and said, "Thinking of learning to drive a car someday?"

"I can drive Sirius's bike fairly well. A car can't be much different, can it?" Harry questioned, relieved at the change of subject.  
  
"Oh it's _very_ different, Harry," Arthur enthused. "Sirius's bike is certainly a magical marvel, but this baby is a thing of _beauty_ and it requires finesse and a careful hand to drive-"  
  
"That isn't what you said to me when you first let me get behind the wheel," George joked, passing by Harry, opening the car door and dropping the basket in the back seat. "Ready to go when you are, Harry."   
  
"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess," Harry said. "Thanks for doing this, George." Perhaps it would be wise for Harry to invest in something that would pass as muggle transportation for himself. As it stood, it would look very strange very quickly to the locals if he just began showing up in town out of the blue and took occupancy of Blackbarrow Manor without visibly moving in a single piece of furniture.   
  
"It's no trouble," George dismissed, waving a hand flippantly. "You're family, I'd do the same for any of the rest of the lot."   
  
Lily slipped into the back seat as George took the driver's. Harry dropped into the front passenger's side and buckled himself in. For all that Arthur spoke of the Ford Anglia needing 'finesse', Harry knew George's style of driving required an entirely different set of skills. He'd been through many narrow misses, sitting in the back with Hermione and Ron with George at the wheel.   
  
They lifted off with a smooth ascension, keeping high up out of view of muggles. George engaged the disillusionment spellwork that his father had carefully placed after a rather nightmarish mishap that almost resulted in his arrest for going against the statute a few years ago--though that was another story entirely--and they rocketed along at a comfortable speed in the direction of Canesworth. To Harry's deep relief George chatted at them rather aimlessly and didn't bring up the subject of Patricia as his mother had, clearly having caught on to how upset the subject made him and focusing on other things. He found himself drifting in and out of wakefulness, staring out at the passing scenery below.   
  
Eventually, they reached an old dirt road fairly close to Canesworth that was deserted enough to touch down and drive the rest of the way on solid ground. Harry was ripped from his sleepiness rather roughly as George brought the car down into a nosedive, pulling it up _just_ in time not to crash. The car rumbled and shook violently as it pulled horizontal to the road and touched down much like a plane landing, slowly making contact here and there before finally landing all four tires on the road and continuing on its way. Harry glanced back to his equally-frazzled-looking mother, who was clinging to the back door handle for dear life, and shook his head at George's antics. 

They drove through the small, scattered village houses and circled around toward the forest, driving along the edge.   
  
"This is probably as close as we can get with the car right now; we'll have to cut a path if we want to be able to bring one up at any point and sweep it through the woods around to the property," Harry explained.   
  
George got as close to the forest edge as he could and parked the car, slamming the door carelessly on his way out. Lily grabbed the basket from the back seat and straightened herself up a bit.   
  
"Well, perhaps now is a good time to see if we can't find where the original pathway may have been through the forest. We can cut through it a bit at a time from the house down to the forest edge, maybe on the back curve of the woods where the entry isn't in direct view of the village."   
  
"It's probably less steep over there, too, so that would make sense," Harry agreed.   
  
"Well why don't we take a walk through and put some markers on the trees where we're cutting a path on our way up?" George suggested. "You said we can't apparate to the place, after all."   
  
"I don't know what would cause someone to splinch themselves just by going to a specific location," Lily wondered. "Perhaps there are some rather hefty wards on the property that we haven't seen yet."   
  
"Well, Lucius Malfoy apparently tried to get onto it and couldn't, after Crick told him about it," Harry noted. "Don't know why I'm able to, and he isn't."   
  
"We'll take a look at it when we get up there. I'm sure a lot of the mystery of this place will be resolved with a bit of thorough investigation," Lily stated, hefting the basket and setting off in the direction of the house.   
  
It took some searching, but they did eventually find the remnants of what may have once been a path up to the manor; the trees along the route were young and the area was mostly overtaken by ground cover; it wouldn't be too hard to uproot the overgrowth, with a bit of magic. They came out of the trees with much greater ease than Harry had the first time he brought along Sirius and Ron. The house was just as beautiful in the early morning daylight as it had been the last time he'd been there. His mother let out a soft 'oh' at the sight of the property, eyes alight.  
  
"It's beautiful," Lily murmured.

"Clearly in dire need, but you can do a lot with a bit of patching and a fresh coat of paint," George said in agreement.   
  
"Well, let's find out if any of these keys work," Harry suggested, heading up to the front porch. This time, he cast a few detection spells in preparation, but there was no further sign of the curse that had burned his hand the first time he'd grasped the door handle. It took a bit of fumbling through the key ring, but he finally found one that fit the ornate lock properly. With a click, the door creaked open and the three of them stepped inside. "I think the kitchen's on the right," said Harry, recalling his midnight jaunt through the house distantly.   
  
"You're right, it is!" Lily called out as she went ahead of him. "My goodness it's dusty in here!"   
  
"It's been at least fifty years since anyone lived here," Harry agreed, following her in. His mother had already set about casting scourgify after scourgify, pulling a self-duster pan out from the bag of supplies she'd brought with her.   
  
"Let's see if we can't get this clean enough to be in working condition. The stove's still quite solid," she observed, opening it up. A veritable swarm of doxies came pouring out, shrieking their anger at the disturbance as they flitted about near the ceiling.  
  
"I _knew_ there'd be doxies," George groaned. "Petrificus totalus!" A few of them dropped, but the majority remained unimpeded in their rampage. One tangled itself in Lily's hair as it attempted to bite at her.   
  
"I've got it," Lily said with forced calm, taking a deep breath and announcing with a flick of her wand, " _Tardius_!" The great majority of the doxies slowed as if caught in a bubble of time, wings beating slowly as they drew back lethargically from the spellwork. His mother rested her hands on her hips momentarily, pleased with her work, then set about disentangling a rather angry young doxy from her hair and picking the rest of them out of the air, placing them in the cage they'd brought just in case.   
  
It took a solid two hours to scour the kitchen from top to bottom and chase out a few other pests that had taken up residence. In the course of that they discovered a beautiful set of old silverware, a complete gold-edged set of dinner plates and other dinnerware, and a wide variety of cast iron pots and pans hung about the kitchen hearth or put away in cupboards. Luckily for all their toil came the positive discovery that after allowing the sink taps to run for a bit the water ran clean and fresh. Lily sent a cleaning charm down the pipes and drain just in case, to clear any potential clogs.   
  
"There's still plates set out on the dining table in the front room," George called, having wandered off to explore as they neared the end of their work on the kitchen. "This place really _was_ left just as it was when Riddle disappeared."   
  
"What do you think I should do with it all?" Harry questioned, wandering in.   
  
"Well, it looks like the house had good enough ventilation that nothing's particularly molded except close to the windows where water leaked in. All the furniture frames are handmade by the look of them--I'd say reupholster whatever you like and toss the rest," George suggested.   
  
"Well that's one thing--there's still...all of _his_ stuff is here. It wouldn't feel right to just throw it all out."   
  
"Maybe store whatever you can in the attic? You said there's a good bit of space up there, right?"   
  
"That might work," Harry agreed thoughtfully.   
  
"Why don't you ask him what he wants to be done with it?" Lily suggested. "I'm sure he'll have some idea about it."  
  
"Is he even here?" George questioned, "We've been here for hours without hide nor hair of him. I'm sure if he's about he knows we're here by now, we haven't exactly been _quietly_ banging the pots and pans about and those doxies sure made a racket."  
  
"No, he's definitely here," Harry frowned. "I know what I saw that night. He just...hasn't shown himself yet."  
  
"Perhaps he's shy?" Lily suggested. "I doubt he's used to company in this place, after so many years."   
  
"Maybe," Harry agreed, though he had a feeling that wasn't it.   
  
"Why don't you both go take a look around the rest of the house? I'm going to tackle the dining room next, you could get started on another room," Lily suggested. "You should figure out where your bedroom is going to be, too, Harry."   
  
With that settled, Harry wandered into the parlor.   
  
"Woah, creepy," George exclaimed, drawing Harry's attention. A piece of furniture with beautiful decorative shelving sat there, various knickknacks artfully placed on each row, but what stood out among them on the third shelf up was a beautiful silver dagger with a heavily-decorated handle, accompanied by a small human skull with runes burned into its surface. "You were wondering if he'd been a dark wizard before, right?" George questioned, "Well, I think we have our answer." He cast a quick detection spell before picking up the skull, raising it aloft over his head. "Alas, poor Yorick, I knew thee well," he intoned with a flair of dramatics, before calling out, "Hey Mrs. Potter, we found a skull!"   
  
"You found a skull?" she echoed, hurrying into the room and immediately frowning when she saw how irreverently George was handling the object. "Put that down, George! That's a divining skull, they're very rare and very dark. And that dagger is probably cursed, I wouldn't touch it."   
  
George did so hurriedly, but with enough care so as not to damage it. "Poor sod you must've been to end up like that."  
  
"Most dark wizards don't just leave things like that out for display," Harry realized. "He must have been quite bold."   
  
"Or quite stupid," George added. "What? Decorating your house with dark objects is practically _screaming_ 'hey I'm a practicing dark wizard, come arrest me,' isn't it?"  
  
"Owning and displaying most dark objects isn't prohibited, George," Harry lectured. "It's when they're owned with clear intent and proof that they're being used that we get into questions of legality."   
  
"Okay, Mr. Auror, knock the wind out of my sails will you," George teased. "Seriously, though. Definitely a dark wizard."   
  
"Probably," Harry acknowledged. "We'll have to be careful, clearing this place out." 

"Maybe Uncle Fabian can help out? He works with all sorts of artifacts at his repair shop pretty regularly," George suggested. "He knows how to handle dark objects--he's lost a few fingers to them over the years but he's good at what he does."   
  
Harry nodded in agreement, trailing his fingertips over a dusty shelf as he headed over toward a pair of double doors at the far end of the room. "I wonder what's in here?" he questioned.   
  
"Could be anything, this house is pretty huge. Hell, if I know anything about old houses like this, could be a second sitting room, even."   
  
"What would be the point of having a second sitting room?"   
  
"To show off, probably," George suggested, "though up until the late thirties wix used to use parlors for all sorts of family events and whatnot. Some folk still do. A birth in the family? A marriage? A funeral? Any kind of thing like that would've taken place in this room."   
  
"Neat," Harry murmured, trying the door only to find it locked. He began trying the keys on the ring, but none of them seemed to fit. Not even an _Alohomora_ got the door open.   
  
"Looks like you're going to have to take those doors off their hinges to get in there, at this rate," George observed.   
  
"I'm not that easily defeated," Harry grumbled. "I'll figure it out eventually."   
  
"Ah well, let's check out some of the other rooms on this level and see what we can find!" George exclaimed, sliding back out into the entry hall and bolting down the back hall to an area that had probably once housed a small servant's quarters. "Check it out, this was probably where any servants slept," George said, throwing a door wide. "I wonder what--oh, _shit,"_ he swore, staggering back.   
  
"George?! Are you alright?" Harry called out, rushing to his side.   
  
"Y-yeah, just...see for yourself, mate."   
  
The back of the door was heavily rotted and covered in scratch marks, the floors stained with mold and rot from long-dissolved fats and tissues. The skeletons of two small creatures--spindly, with large heads, lay curled up beside one another on the floor in front of the door.   
  
"Well, now we know what happened to the house elves," George muttered, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. "I might vomit."   
  
Harry took a deep, calming breath before crouching down and examining the remains, then the door. "It looks like they were locked in here. Most house elves could probably get out of a room like this, with their magic. They must have been incapacitated somehow."   
  
"Treating it like a crime scene?"  
  
"Morbid as it is, it might be, with Riddle's disappearance. Can you get Sirius's camera out of mum's bag? We should take photos of this before we do anything."  
  
George left and came back shortly after with the camera. "I told her we found some neat stuff to take pictures of. She's still busy with the dining room."  
  
"Let's take care of their remains once we're done. I'll see if I can't find a box upstairs we can use to hold the bones for now--I don't want mum seeing this. I'll talk to Hermione later about what's the proper cultural thing to do for a house elf burial. For now, let's leave this room locked until we can deal with this." George nodded in agreement as he set up the camera, leaving the rest of the work to Harry, who was considerably more familiar with the proper way to take photos of a potential crime scene than he.   
  
"Merlin," George murmured. "What the hell happened here, to leave house elves just locked up to die like that?"   
  
"Something very, very bad," Harry responded, the shutter clicking and the camera light flashing away as he took another long exposure of the crime scene, carefully guiding the camera around to show both the bodies and the damage to the doorway. "The more I see of this place, the more I feel like Riddle definitely wouldn't have disappeared willingly. I'm going to go look up the cold case file first thing tomorrow, for certain. I'll probably be adding evidence to it, if this is anything to go by."   
  


* * *

  
As Harry began the hunt for an appropriate box to transfigure for the house elve's remains upstairs, he found a second den that also looked to be a music room--a beautiful grand piano that had been painted with various scenes of what looked to be a fox hunt stood off to one side before a pair of enormous, tall windows that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, bathing the room in light. Beyond that in a heavily reinforced area with very thick walls, located just over the kitchens below, Harry found a second room with a large fireplace and numerous cauldrons scattered about. One entire wall was taken up with aged potions ingredients, and various herbs and plants hung, long-dried, from the ceiling rafters. Several of the cauldrons contained contents that had dried or turned to mush in the bottom of the pots. One had melted entirely through both the cauldron bottom and the table edge beneath it--there was a bit of damage there to the floor that would need to be replaced, as well. For all intents and purposes it looked as though Riddle had been right in the middle of working on a variety of projects, though what they had once been was indiscernible now, with the age of the cauldron's contents. Luckily in the back of the room Harry found an old lidded wooden box containing a variety of jars of ingredients that looked to have mostly disintegrated with the passage of time. Setting the jars out on the counter that spanned one side of the enclosed room, he transfigured the box into two separate compartments; it was just large enough to hold both skeletons.   
  
"I should probably take photos of each room before we do much more cleaning for the case file," Harry muttered to himself as he walked out into the hall with the box, only to drop it on the floor at the sight of a shadowy figure on the stairwell that was _distinctly_ unlike any ghost he had ever seen before.

Frail, elongated fingers curved delicately over the bannister's edge, blackened and sooty. Tattered ashen robes billowed out into a hazy grey smoke, sparking red embers and bits of ash dissipating into the air around it as the being turned its head in Harry's direction and leaned toward him as if to peer more closely, the vague hints of a humanlike face suggested beneath the smoky miasma that rose from its skin. The very air in the hall seemed to crackle and heat unbearably until Harry felt like his very breath had been sucked from his lungs as molten red eyes fixed on to his own.

Goosebumps rose on the back of Harry's neck. He was immediately struck by an unmistakable feeling that any seasoned Auror could recognize; he was being judged as to whether or not he was a threat.

Time seemed to ooze past as Harry stood there, palming his wand and _waiting_ for the creature to make a move. Finally, the being nodded its head as if politely acknowledging Harry's presence, then slowly drifted up the stair to the third floor, the light tap of footsteps following in its wake.

The very _moment_ the stairwell had been cleared Harry took the steps down to the first floor two at a time, rushing to the back hall where George was waiting and grabbing his wrist. "Get out, now. We've got to get out of here, there's something here," Harry gasped out. 

George didn't hesitate, rushing toward the front and warning Lily. Harry thundered in after him, ushering his mother out the front door as quickly as he could despite her protests. It wasn't until they had run deep into the forest on their way back to the car that he finally stopped and spoke. "That's not a ghost," he grated, "I don't know _what_ it was but that was _not_ a normal ghost."   
  
"What happened, Harry?" Lily asked. Her eyes were wide and alarmed as she clung to his arm.   
  
"It was just _watching_ me from the stairwell. Looked almost halfway solid, but it had no face," he explained shakily--and he _was_ shaking, he realized, grasping his arms tightly. "I need to talk to Hermione, she'd know what to do."

"Do you think it was Riddle?" George wheezed as he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, taking in deep gulps of air.  
  
"I don't know _what_ it was," Harry snapped, "but nobody's going back there until it's gone."   
  


* * *

  
  



	5. Ashes, Ashes

Hermione was at home at Mossy Creek when Harry apparated over after parting ways from George and his mother. "Harry?" she questioned, rising from her seat on the couch surrounded by books and paperwork. "What happened? You look like you-"  
  
"Saw a ghost," said Harry. "Yeah. About that. I don't think whatever's living in that place is a ghost. I don't know _what_ it is, but it's not normal."   
  
"Tell me everything," Hermione ordered, ushering him into a seat.

Harry recounted the events as best he could. He didn't know _what_ about the creature had unnerved him so deeply; he had been an auror for bordering on six years now and had seen plenty of frightening things in his time, why was this one different? Hermione squeezed his arm gently when he paused occasionally to gather his thoughts and catch his breath, offering soft encouragement now and then until finally, he'd recounted it all--the house elves, the dark artifacts, the figure on the stairwell--and he was left feeling empty and wrung-out with exhaustion. Hermione looked surprisingly thoughtful and notably less concerned than Harry had expected, and more like she had just been presented with a particularly interesting puzzle and was divining the best way to solve it. 

"When someone dies with unfinished business or regrets they have the split second opportunity to let their spirit remain behind. However, when someone dies under violent circumstances and harbors great anger, bitterness, or hatred, those emotions coupled with the intensity of both the situation and their magic can sometimes produce malevolent ghosts. They certainly aren't very common, at least. You would never have encountered one before at Hogwarts, or most likely anywhere else you'd usually go," Hermione observed, "It's regrettable, but considering that the circumstances around Riddle's death are murky at best and we have strong hints that he was a dark wizard who may have been murdered, it isn't the most surprising thing that he may be malevolent. It would, however, take a particularly powerful spirit to be able to physically manifest in the way that you've described the two times you've interacted with him. It is also possible that if Riddle was using experimental dark magic it may have resulted in his current state. He may not necessarily even be a ghost, he may have become something else entirely. The line between spirits and beings isn't always a wide one, after all." 

"What am I going to do, though? I can't live in a house with a malevolent spirit!"   
  
"That all depends on if you're willing or able to work something out. Even malevolent spirits can be lucid, and can potentially be bargained with. You have to remember that it is his home too, and he's gone to the trouble of encouraging you to take the place for a reason. Really your best hope for dealing with the issue is to figure out what happened to him, Harry, and that's probably what he wants as well. But if it becomes a serious problem or he poses any kind of danger there are still alternative options. We can try banishment if he didn't die in the house, or confining him to a haunted mirror."   
  
"So I should what, just go back and try _talking it out_ with it? Like oh hey, thing that may or may not be Tom Riddle, you feel like being roommates? Mind if we come in and clean the place up a bit? That's cool with you, yeah, awesome! Hermione, there's _no_ way that it's going to turn out like that. You didn't _see_ that thing, you didn't feel the magic around it."   
  
"No, you're right. I didn't," Hermione agreed. "But I still think that taking this to an extreme measure just because you find him frightening is a bit rushed and could land you in an even worse situation. He hasn't been openly hostile to you yet, Harry. If anything, he's invited you in."  
  
"That's half the reason why I don't trust it," Harry retorted.  
  
"And you're going to let a ghost stop you from doing what you want? The Harry I know wouldn't give up so easily."   
  
Harry groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Why does everything have to be this hard?"   
  
"All the things worth doing in life are hard, Harry," said Hermione, "but first thing's first; we should ascertain whether he is in fact a spirit or whether there is some being having taken up residence on the property. Naturally, I'll come with you."   
  
"But you can't!"   
  
"What, because I'm pregnant? I'm not so far along that I need to be putting my life on hold, Harry," Hermione glowered, fixing Harry with a sharp glare. "That hasn't stopped me from doing my job this far, and it won't be stopping me yet. If it turns out to be dangerous, we'll leave and call in an on-duty professional. But in the meantime no evidence you've given me has told me that this is something I'd be incapable of handling. So far there are no signs that this spirit is inherently violent or dangerous except for its looks. Now come on, we haven't got all day. I'll leave a note for Ronald to come join us when he gets home from Fabian's shop." And with that Hermione pushed off the couch, grabbed her coat and scarf, and stood with her arms crossed in the doorway. "Well? What are you waiting for, Harry, we don't have all day!"   
  


* * *

  
Harry was a bit mutinous about the whole thing but ultimately, he trusted Hermione to know her body and to know her limits. When it came down to it Harry knew nothing about pregnancy at all really, and while Hermione was only about three and a half months along and just starting to show, he felt the increasing urge to be overprotective. Ron had been much the same when he found out. He began obsessively reading both wizarding and muggle baby books and started arguing with Hermione on what she could and couldn't eat until she'd finally blown a gasket and sat them both down for a very lengthy talk about everything from the in's and out's of pregnancy to why it was important that she be in control of what she did and didn't decide to do with her body while pregnant, and that Ron's fretting and micromanaging was not something that she was going to tolerate.   
  
In the face of such a great unknown, however, Harry couldn't help but feel anxious over Hermione's presence there even as she inquisitively peered about, scrawling things down on a small notepad she'd brought with her to consolidate her observations.   
  
"Let's take a look around. If everything seems calm after we do a search of the house, we should recover that crate and deal with the house elf remains," Hermione instructed, glancing down the back hall where they'd found the bodies. "Did you leave Sirius's camera here?" Harry nodded. "Good. I think you had the right idea, about taking photographs of every room. You should be as thorough as possible before disturbing anything further, if we want to find any useful clues. In the meantime though, let's see if we can find him."   
  
A thorough walkthrough of the first floor yielded nothing. The door off of the parlor was still locked, as was the entry to the back stairwell. Further exploration of the first floor revealed an entry into a sizable atrium that stretched upward, opening out onto the second floor off the back of the house. It was wildly overgrown with a number of wizarding plants, only a few of which Harry could identify but several were noted by Hermione to be poisonous, so they steered clear of that area until they could contact Neville about helping cut them back to a manageable state.   
  
The potions room upstairs was exactly as Harry had left it. As he was leaving the room he paused in the hallway, half expecting to see the spectral figure on the stairwell once more, but there was no trace of the being he'd previously encountered. Several more rooms had clearly been repurposed into a variety of workrooms on this level. There was one containing several shelves of dark objects, each one of them neatly labeled and tagged with any individual name, what they did, and in some cases, how to replicate or dispel the effects. Another room was bare of all furniture, but numerous circles of runework had been carefully painted out on the floor in what Harry recognized to be old blood.   
  
"Definitely a dark wizard," Harry observed.   
  
"And a very prolific one, judging by the sheer number of different types of magic that look to have been worked with in this place," Hermione agreed. "No wonder Lucius was being rather sparse on the details of the house when you were in the process of purchasing it, considering you're an Auror. He probably didn't want to get into any trouble."  
  
"Not that there's anything he'd really be culpable for here, considering no-one could access the property until I did."  
  
"That _is_ strange. Though it's notable that Lucius tried after you succeeded and _still_ wasn't given access," Hermione noted.  
  
"True," Harry mused, opening another door. "I think I've found Riddle's study."   
  
The room was packed from floor to ceiling with books and scrolls, several more piled on top of an enormous desk in some sense of organized chaos. Hermione sneezed lightly as a bit of dust was stirred up upon their entry, covering her nose with her hand. "I think you'll find a lot of answers about who he was here," Hermione decried, lifting a few sheafs of parchment delicately. "I'm starting to wonder if he was some kind of magical researcher."   
  
"He was probably well-known, if he was this avid about his work," Harry considered. "There have _got_ to be people still around today who knew him or at least knew of him."

Hermione hummed and nodded in agreement, flitting about the room and examining everything from top to bottom. Harry began opening up the drawers on Riddle's desk, but the central one was locked. Just as he was about to try a quick _alohomora_ , every single shutter on the exterior windows shot open, rocketing apart and slamming against the exterior walls. The room was instantly flooded with light. Dusting her hands off, Hermione rested them on her hips and looked at the open windows. "Well, I think it's safe to say we've gotten his attention."   
  
Harry felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck. "Yeah. I certainly feel like I'm being watched." Taking a deep breath, he walked out into the hall, absorbing the stillness of the house for a brief moment. The deserted halls, the dusty air filtering around them seemed to almost hum with its own kind of ambient energy as if they were in the midst of the sweet, deceptive lull before a heavy storm. "Let's take a look at the third floor."   
  


Much like the rest of the house, the third floor was entirely deserted and without any sign of life. These rooms, however, seemed far more residential in nature. They discovered several entirely empty ones, as well as a couple that were stuffed with boxes and discarded furniture from floor to ceiling. One room had been painted in a soft cream color that faded to deep blues as it reached the ceiling where little white stars blinked down at them, each wall bordered with a beautiful little landscape mural. "A nursery, probably," said Hermione. "It doesn't look like it's been used in any recent history, though it's quite lovely."

Another room was entirely bare, each wall an austere hospital-white and undecorated save for a single triangular wreath made from branches and pressed leaves strung together with a bit of twine hanging in the center of three windows looking out over the cliff edge not far from the house, beyond which there was little but a bare stretch of beach between them and the ocean below. A single rocking chair sat by the window. "I bet on a clear day you can hear the ocean you listen closely," Harry murmured, walking up to the window and peering out.   
  
"There's nothing here in this one, let's keep looking," Hermione suggested, wandering out as Harry trailed behind.  
  
"I'll be right there, Hermione," Harry called back as she moved on. He didn't know why but something about this particular room was strangely peaceful. He paused in the doorway, resting his hand on the frame as he glanced back into the room from the hallway. For the briefest instant the light gleamed through the window and there was a man seated in the rocker, looking out at the ocean view with a well-loved book in his lap, a small silver tea tray hovering beside him as a matching teapot poured liquid into a polished cup. Harry's breath caught in his throat as the sound of the ocean swelled around them. The man picked the cup up off the tray with an elegant, long-fingered hand, entirely unconcerned and not seeming to have registered Harry's presence in the least. He crossed his leg comfortably, rocking back in the chair as he flicked his hand and the windows opened, allowing in a fresh gust of salty air that swept through the room. Harry blinked as the wind hit him and the image vanished, but the rocking chair creaked lightly before now-opened windows in front of him, as if it had been occupied just a moment ago.   
  
Harry stepped into the room and shut them, making sure the latches were secure before hurrying out after Hermione. For some reason he felt strangely reassured by what he'd seen. It hadn't been malicious in nature; if anything it had been oddly inviting, as if he was being given a glimpse of what this place was like--and what it could be for him, as well.   
  
The rest of the rooms were mostly bedrooms, filled with dusty sheets and lavishly decorated, but they looked old and unused. The central room that appeared to take up the most floorspace, judging by those around it, was completely inaccessible. Harry and Hermione tried several different spells but the door remained tightly locked regardless of their efforts. Likewise, try as they might, they couldn't find an acccess point for the attic. "Well, I suppose it would be presumptuous to think we could solve all of this place's mysteries with a single visit," Hermione observed as she noted down yet another locked room--there had been six inaccessible rooms discovered, by the time they reached the end of the far hallway on the third floor.   
  
Having managed to access most of the house without difficulty and finding little else of interest, they returned to the second floor and got the box Harry had dropped during his last encounter and made their way down to the first floor to deal with the house elves. "This is so tragic," Hermione murmured upon reopening the servant's quarters and taking in the sight of the bones. "They should be buried on the property close to the house at midday," she advised Harry. "House elves don't typically use grave markers, but if you feel the need to put one for them I doubt they'd have been offended. We should see if we can find some locally grown flowers to put in with them before they're interred, as well, but otherwise the burial would be fairly simple." The two of them lapsed into silence as they levitated the bones individually into the box's compartments.   
  
"I think I saw him, in the room with the rocker," Harry said as Hermione closed up the box after they'd moved the last of the bones. "It was just for a second, but when I blinked the windows had been opened. It was strange--like I was being given a glimpse at his life. It didn't feel malevolent," he murmured, frowning to himself. "It felt like I was being shown something private."   
  
"I don't think the ghost here means you ill, Harry," Hermione said, standing and dusting her hands off. "I think if you just give him a chance to acclimate to your presence, things will work out."   
  
"Maybe, but I want to know just what exactly I saw on the stairwell."   
  
"Well, you certainly aren't going to find that out by avoiding this place," Hermione noted.   
  
"I know," Harry agreed. "I'm going to look up Riddle's case file and see what I can't glean from that in the meantime, but I don't think that I should be having a lot of people traipsing through here--it might upset whatever's living in the house."   
  
"Are you still planning to move in?" Hermione questioned.   
  
"I think so," Harry nodded, "but I want to take some time to figure out more about this thing. I think I'll start in on repairs on the first floor and see how it reacts to that, just to get a feel for the place. The goal would be to have it livable enough that I can move in by the time I'm preparing to go back to work."   
  
"That sounds like a good plan," Hermione nodded. "Maybe you should keep a journal, to keep track of any paranormal occurrences alongside your investigation?"   
  
"Good idea, Hermione," Harry said, grinning. "And hey--thanks for sticking with me on this. I think I got a bit discouraged prematurely at the complications we found." And he had, when he thought about it. The house was still just as beautiful as it had been the first time he'd seen it, and the desire still held firm to bring it back to its prime. And Harry James Potter wasn't about to be thwarted from his goals by some dark creature, he was far too stubborn for that.   
  
"Any time, Harry. You've always encouraged me when it mattered, so it's only sensible that I do the same for you," Hermione beamed. "Oh, look! There's Ron coming up the hill!"   
  
Ron loped up from the treeline, stopping short just before the two of them and taking deep, heavy breaths. "Came soon as I saw the note on the fridge--what's this about the ghost being malevolent? You both alright?"   
  
"Oh we're fine," Hermione soothed, "Harry was just concerned because he thinks he caught a glimpse of some kind of malevolent spirit while he, George and Mrs. Potter were cleaning out the first floor--it didn't do anything but nod at him, but apparently it looks rather frightening."   
  
"I can see that," Ron gulped, staring past the two of them. Harry and Hermione turned as one to follow Ron's gaze up to the second story balcony off the house's front, where a pale, smoky figure could distantly be seen leaning over the edge, watching them. "That is _wicked_ creepy," Ron whispered.   
  
"It's like he's made of ash," Hermione murmured, looking unsettlingly fascinated. "You're right, Harry, I've certainly never seen a spirit that looked like that. This will definitely require more study. Aggervich over in Spirits and Beings Management is going to be over the moon when she hears about this."   
  
Harry's breath caught in his throat as his eyes fixed on the being. Much like before, little flecks of ash floated off its form here and there. Faded old robes that Harry could now see were of an older wizarding cut fluttered lightly with the slightest breeze. Unlike before, however, Harry didn't feel quite as shocked through with terror. If anything, he felt curious. The being looked a bit less substantial in broad daylight; he could see the vaguest hints of the building behind it through its form, giving its body a consistency that was much more familiar to the typical spirits that Harry had encountered in his lifetime.   
  
"Are you Tom Riddle?" Harry called out boldly, stepping toward the balcony.   
  
The spirit didn't answer, but he did turn to focus on him, leaning delicately on the balcony rail.   
  
"I'm going to be here now and then to clean the place up a bit!" Harry continued, "I just wanted you to know so you weren't surprised to run into me!" He took a deep breath and added, "I'm going to fix up the house, it'll be good as new when I'm done! So don't be startled if there's a few people coming through!" Feeling slightly more confident, Harry finished, "Thank you for finding the deed for me, if that was you!"  
  
The spirit inclined his head much as he'd done before, then turned and slipping back through the balcony door into the house's interior. Harry found himself smiling as relief washed through him. "It's definitely a strange ghost," he remarked, "but I think you were right, Hermione. He doesn't seem ill-intentioned, though I'll keep an eye out." Harry looked back up to the now-empty balcony. "I think I might stick around and get some more things cleaned up this evening."   
  
Hermione beamed at him. "If you need anything, Harry, don't hesitate to ask. And let me know how everything works out. I _certainly_ would love to come get a closer look at your friend up there, when I can get the chance!"   
  
Ron clapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Are you _sure_ you're fine here with that thing in there?"  
  
"I'm sure," Harry responded, feeling far more self-assured about the ghost's presence than he had before. Hermione was right, after all. He'd done nothing to cause him harm, and there hadn't been any indication of malevolence. "He just startled me earlier, I'm fine now."   
  
"Alright mate, if you're certain," Ron agreed, squeezing his shoulder before letting go and turning to follow Hermione on the trek down to an area where it was safe to apparate.   
  
Harry spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between _scourgifying_ the living daylights out of every piece of furniture, curtains, and carpeting on the first floor and magically repairing any broken windowpanes. The sooner the house was watertight, the sooner he'd be able to make it habitable, after all. There was no further activity from the spirit, but Harry still got the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that told him every action he took was being carefully observed well into the evening. When he finally left he saw that yet again, there was a light on in the attic--this time illuminating a figure in the window, watching him raptly as he made his way down into the forest.   


* * *


	6. An Empty File

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> Listening for this chapter:  
> Lieder ohne Worte by Felix Mendelssohn

"I thought your Pop sent you on an 'enforced' vacation, didn't he?" Peregrine MacDougall questioned, slapping down the file Harry had requested on his desk. It had been a favor on Perry's part, but not one of any great significance to get his partner to grab the file for him. Perry was a good, helpful sort after all, looking the other way even though Harry wasn't technically supposed to be doing work right now and even though he hadn't gotten dispensation to take over Riddle's case--though he doubted it would be hard. Scrimgeour didn't have much care for what cold cases struck his fancy as long as he produced results.  
  
"He did, sort of. This is an extracurricular project," Harry said, sipping at his coffee and trading the second one he'd gotten to his fellow auror. "Here you are, Perry, mocha with an extra shot of espresso."   
  
"It ain't no pumpkin juice, but I'll take it," Perry grinned, grabbing a chair from a nearby desk and flipping it around to sit next to Harry's. "So what's this project, then?"   
  
Harry chuckled. "You always were nosy. I bought a house," Harry explained. "Turns out the last owner up and disappeared sixty some-odd years ago. Never found, never solved."  
  
"You really know how to pick 'em, don't'cha Potter?" Perry snorted, taking a long draft from the paper cup. "So you planning on tryin' to solve it, then?" he questioned as Harry pulled the file toward him and flipped it open.   
  
"Maybe. I've been looking over the house's interior and there's...signs, here and there, that something happened," he noted, unclipping the photograph that had been attached to the file's first few pages and glancing at it. Tom Riddle was certainly a handsome fellow. He had a very refined look about him, with his black hair perfectly slicked back in a style that had been quite fashionable for the era. He had high, sharp cheekbones, and delicate, pale skin. Brown eyes that were surprisingly hard stared out at Harry from the photograph with an intelligent, calculating expression until suddenly the figure in the picture gave a polite, approachable smile that shattered the illusion of aloofness as if it had never been.   
  
"Signs? Like what?"   
  
"Like the dead house elves in the back room and the scratchmarks on the door showing they'd been unable to get out and were left there to rot," Harry sighed, flipping to the next page in the report. Peregrine hissed in disgust. "Everything in the house except for that looks like he just walked out right in the middle of living his life and never came back," Harry continued. "Projects left undone, letters half written, a meal that hadn't even been finished."   
  
"Strange," Perry murmured, rocking back in the chair. "Well! Sounds like an exciting new project for you, Potter! I'll keep holding down the fort in the meantime until you get back. Let me know if you need any help."   
  
"I always do," Harry agreed. "I'll look this over and let you know if there's any significant updates." Perry nodded and lifted out of the chair, but before he could leave a thought occurred to Harry. "Oh, and Perry--how's the Knockturn case going?"   
  
Perry's shoulders slumped. "Should've known you wouldn't be able to keep from asking about it. There's no news, Potter. Though at this point no news is technically good news, since we haven't found any more bodies yet. Tell you what, you keep me in the loop on what you're up to with your case and I'll keep you updated on the Knockturn case, yeah?"  
  
"It's a deal," Harry agreed, though he knew Perry wasn't all that interested in an old cold case from the 50's and was, realistically, only offering for Harry's own benefit. Perry saluted him jokingly and sauntered off back to his on desk, plopping down into his seat and grabbing the first few sheets of paperwork from a pile on his desk corner, settling in.   
  
Harry flipped back to the first page of the file, discontent with his findings. Tom Riddle was clean--far too clean, really, considering the sheer amount of dark objects that had been present in the house. There wasn't even the slightest hint that he'd been a practitioner; clearly he'd been very, very good at hiding his tracks. The missing persons report was a simple one-page affair, describing that Riddle hadn't shown up at an expected get-together with a few friends one evening, leading to immediate concern over his wellbeing. Questioning of his friends and associates revealed that they hadn't noticed any strange or unusual behavior from Riddle recently, and that they seemed to be unaware of any enemies that may have ill intent toward him. Considering the names of some of his associates--some of whom, upon further investigation, were well known to be dark wizards in today's day and age--Harry sincerely doubted that they'd been entirely honest.  
  
The next several pages went on about various attempts to access his property and check on him--that it seemed as if an extremely powerful barrier had been erected around the entirety of the property, from stone fence and gate straight around the open cliff edge, bubbling over the house and sealing it in on all sides. Notably, an auror lost a hand which needed to be later reattached at Mungo's the first time he attempted to apparate near the property. Other minor splinches were recorded therein as well as that not only aurors but friends and associates were all unable to access the property--all had been shut out. A professional wardsmith had been brought in to look at the protective barrier and had, likewise, been unable to crack it. Regular check-ins were reported with updates that no sign was found of Riddle traveling internationally, which it was noted he'd done for a few years before returning to Britain on a more permanent basis, and that no sightings had been reported within the UK or elsewhere. The first page had been stamped with the marker that noted 'PRESUMED DEAD' in big bold lettering, and it had been filed away to remain untouched until today.   
  
With a heavy sigh, Harry scrawled out a report about the state of the house upon his first walkthrough, detailing especially the house elves and gluing in a photograph of the scene to complement his observations. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He filed the report away in his desk drawer and shrugged into his coat. There were a few stops he wanted to make around Diagon before he headed back to Canesworth.  
  


* * *

  
"I'm back!" Harry called out into the empty house as he closed the front door behind him. He felt a bit silly, calling out to a spirit that may or may not actually be present and listening, but he'd taken it on advisement from Hermione that acknowledging Riddle's spirit increased the likelihood of positive rapport between the two of them.

Harry traipsed into the dining room from the entry hall, removing the shrunken pack of various books he'd purchased from Flourish & Blotts and dumping the lot of them out on the dining room table before shrugging off his coat and throwing it carelessly over one of the mahogany chairs. Picking out the one that had looked to be the most useful back at the store, Harry wandered into the kitchen, thumbing through the pages. He remained only momentarily absorbed in going over the various spells, however, as he noticed that several of the things that he and his mother had moved around when cleaning the kitchen had been returned to various hooks on the walls and neatly placed back into the cleaned cabinets in an organized fashion. "Huh," he exclaimed, looking about the room momentarily. It looked like he'd be wanting to have a talk with the ghost sooner, rather than later, about what he wanted done with all of his old things. If Harry was going to be living here not everything could stay or would be of use to him--though certainly having access to a full kitchenware set of cast iron pots and pans wasn't something he'd pass up. And much as the sets of china in the cupboards were beautiful, they weren't very practical or something Harry would typically choose to use himself, for fear of breaking them.   
  
Having found a slightly less harsh spell than scourgify that could simultaneously help brighten the old, faded dyes used in the curtains, rugs, and other fabrics around the house, Harry mouthed the words aloud to himself. " _Purgis Clare_ ," he repeated, flicking his hand at the yellowed lace curtains in the kitchen. They unwrinkled, lightening to a soft cream color as a fine powder of dust and grime floated off of them, scattering on the floor below. "Well the extra mess isn't the most desirable side effect," Harry observed, "but not half bad." He cleared the last bits of dust from the floor, then set about applying the charm to each curtain, heading back into the dining room to fix up the courtains in there as well. "Is it more like some kind of bleaching charm though, or is it actually brightening things?" he mumbled to himself, "maybe I should test it out on a patch of cloth or something--"   
  
The coat was gone from where he'd tossed it over the back of the chair. ' _Where could it possibly have gone?'_ Harry thought, wandering out of the dining room, but his question was easily answered when he saw that his coat had been properly hung up on the rack not far from the front door, as if it belonged there. "Point taken, I suppose, I'll try not to leave things lying about," Harry huffed in mild amusement. "I guess everything has its place in this house. But where am I going to fit in my things among all this?" Harry questioned aloud, glancing about. He knew that the ghost must be listening.   
  
Harry spent the next few hours just going about the first floor and doing a wide variety of minor cleaning charms. At first it didn't seem to make much of a difference, but cumulatively the rooms on the first floor began to look brighter, have more of a natural shine to the woodwork, and repairing the peeling wallpaper had gone a long way towards restoring the place to its original finery. It was by no means a true fix; a lot of the furniture would need to be reupholstered and there was still mold and water damage in some places by the windows and down the walls that would need to be ripped out and replaced, almost like lancing and bandaging an old wound. Some of the carpeting was beyond saving, and all of the wainscoting around the room needed to be polished until it shone. Still, Harry was pretty satisfied with his work by the time that he noticed that the sun had set and he was beginning to tire. Before he closed up the house for the night, Harry did a quick walk-through of each floor, just to make sure everything was in order. Convinced that all was as well as it could be in this place, he locked the front door behind him and headed back home for the evening.   
  
By the end of the second day of cleaning Blackbarrow Manor, Harry was beginning to look forward to the broom rides back and forth to Canesworth; it had been a while since he'd broken out his nimbus for anything except the odd pick-up game of quidditch, and he'd missed the feel of the wind whipping his hair back from his face as he flew. When he arrived back to his parent's house, Lily made him stop in the doorway and _scourgified_ him thoroughly before he was allowed to take his boots off and set foot indoors.  
  
"What were you even doing, to get this thoroughly dirty?" Lily questioned, licking her finger and scrubbing dirt off his nose.  
  
"I was cleaning out the chimneys and all six fireplaces. You should have _seen_ the size of some of the bird and mouse nests I found," Harry exclaimed as he carefully took his boots and socks off to avoid tracking soot onto their nice peach-colored parlor rug, "I got a lot done today, though!"  
  
"Cleaning charms aren't going to be enough to deal with all this soot. Go take a bath, sweetheart--and clean the tub out when you're done, please!"   
  
A long, lazy soak in steaming-hot water was a rewarding end to a successful day. Harry lounged in the tub until his skin was wrinkled and soft, washing away the remnants of the house's dirt and grime that had clung to every inch of him. He crawled into bed, exhausted and content, and was immediately asleep.  
  


* * *

  
_Harry gazed out the open triptych of windows, eyes slipping past the wreath suspended there to the distant sight of choppy waves that were just visible over the cliff edge. Beside him, Riddle curled his hand over the end of the rocking chair's armrest, his gaze focused skyward upon the roiling gray clouds visible above. He looked so very similar to the photograph in his file; a bit older and more severe perhaps, but this was softened by the light brown shade of his well-fitted suit and the thin, insubstantial upward curve of his lips. Perhaps this was what he'd looked like, in his last days._  
  
_"A storm's coming in," Riddle mused, gently closing the book in his lap. "I wonder what you'll do when it finally reaches us."  
  
__"Weather it out, I'd expect,"_ _Harry responded. "This place is sturdy, it'll hold out against the wind and rain and I've patched the roof and windows."  
  
__"That's not really what I'm concerned about," Riddle said with a small, secretive smile, "but you'll see soon enough."_

_"That isn't ominous or anything," Harry drawled. "I do hope I won't be murdered in my sleep or anything as droll as that."_

_Riddle let out a peal of laughter, leaning back in his chair, throwing his head back to display the fragile curve of his throat. "Oh Harry, your humor is deeply underrated. I'm sure that when your time comes your death will be very different from what you expect."  
  
Harry shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "We should close the windows if the storm's rolling in."   
  
"No," Tom murmured, rising from his seat. He walked the few steps to the window and leaned out, closing his eyes as a heavy breeze swept through the room. "No, I think I'd rather feel the sting of the wind on my face for once. You can almost feel the electricity crackling in the air."   
  
"That's dangerous, you know," Harry observed. Riddle turned to look at him, leaning against the window's edge with his back to the steep drop just behind him.   
  
"Mr. Potter, there is never a moment in life that you feel as truly alive in as the moment you are confronted with the immediate prospect of your own death."   
  
"That's morbid."  
  
"Well, I would know, after all. The dead have nothing to fear of mortality."   
  
Harry wasn't certain how to respond to that, so he focused on the alternative. "It's Harry. Just Harry, not Mr. Potter. That's far too formal," Harry explained, sticking his hand out in some semblance of a proper introduction.  
  
"If that is your wish then, Harry," Riddle hummed, mouth curling in a way that made Harry's breath catch in his throat. He reached out and grasped Harry's hand but instead of shaking it, he gently brought the back of it to his lips. "Then you must call me Tom."  
  
_

* * *

  
Harry awakened feeling as if he'd barely slept. That had felt like something other than a typical dream; it had been far too vivid, and Harry could still remember the sharpness lingering behind Riddle's soft brown eyes. Stumbling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a ratty t-shirt and went downstairs to fix something to eat. Today he would be tackling the damaged flooring in the servant's quarters at Blackbarrow. He wasn't much looking forward to it, but it needed to be done. Just as Harry was forking eggs out of the pan onto his plate, his dad rushed past and stole a piece of bread out of the toaster that he'd been preparing for himself.   
  
"Sorrygottaruncalledinearly!" James blurted out in a rush, throwing his jacket on and whisking out the door, banging it back upon its hinges. The sudden 'POP' of apparition quickly followed.   
  
"Wonder what that was all about," Harry muttered, tossing a new piece of bread into the toaster for himself.   
  
He took his time getting ready, delaying until well after his mother, as well, had left for work, before he finally dragged himself upstairs to grab the muggle supplies he'd bought for the job--white plastic coveralls, rubber boots, and a thick pair of rubber cleaning gloves. He pocketed the wooden flooring that he'd purchased and shrunken down to the size of toothpicks as well as a hammer and nails, then snapped on his goggles and grabbed his broom off its rack and set off back to Canesworth.   
  
Ripping up the floorboards was no easy task--each one had been laid down with a sturdy sticking charm and required a crowbar to pry up (which Harry accomplished with a quick transfiguration of his hammer). It took him a good three hours to pry up the damaged flooring where the house elve's bodies had lain, and he was certain he looked quite ridiculous throughout the whole process, straining and huffing as he fought against the magic that held the house together. "Come on, come on, just a bit more," he growled out, throwing all his weight down onto the crowbar. He was rewarded with a loud CRACK as the flooring separated and jackknifed up, revealing the wooden beams underneath. "There we are!" Harry crowed, laughing a bit to himself as he dropped onto his back on the floor and lay there, panting from exertion. "Done!" He was exhausted and overheated, and how strangely muggy the house had become in the past half hour certainly wasn't helping, Harry thought, pulling at his plastic coveralls. They peeled away from his skin, sweat-soaked, and he grimaced. "Gross."   
  
It was in that momentary lull that Harry heard the slow, steady tap of footsteps approaching down the hallway.

Thinking fast, Harry ripped off one of the gloves and palming his wand, scrambling to his feet and flattening himself against the interior wall of the servant's quarters just past the door. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as the footsteps finally came to a stop just a few bare feet from where he was crouched, pausing in the doorway. He held his breath, silently willing the creature to just _go away,_ but when he looked to his left he could see a flicker of ash and sparks of red embers disintegrating into the air.  
  
**_"Tell me,"_** the specter demanded, _**"W**_ ** _HY_ _are you defacing my house?"_**   
  
Harry took a chance and looked up only to find luminous, angry red eyes focused onto his own as the being glared down at him. Choking a bit as his mouth went dry, he bit out, "The floors were rotted through. I'm replacing them with fresh flooring so this room can be used again."   
  
Beneath the haze of smoke coming off its form, Harry could see rivulets of smoldering ember lining the being's face. It regarded the flooring dispassionately, then commanded, **"See that you do not cause undue damage. It should be exactly as it was."**  
  
Harry nodded a bit shakily, not moving from his spot crouched against the wall. The creature lingered in the frame for what seemed like an eon, before finally it turned on its heel and Harry watched it recede down the hallway, the oppressive heat disappearing along with it. The moment he was certain it had left, Harry slid down the wall to sit on the floor, gasping for air. "Holy _shit,"_ he whispered to himself. Red eyes were _never_ a good sign in any kind of magical being or spirit. That was simple common knowledge. It hadn't even occurred to him in the moment to ask _since apparently he was on speaking terms with it now_ as to whether the creature was some remnant of Tom Riddle. He had a very sinister, ugly feeling rising in his gut that told him that he should already know the answer--but he needed confirmation.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Harry got back up and finished replacing the flooring and transfiguring the new to match the old in record time. It may have felt like cutting corners a bit, to send the boards stacking into their correct places and slicing them down to size with quick, precise cutting hexes, but he needed answers and the sooner he got this done, the sooner he could go after the specter. The moment he was done he vanished the old, broken flooring he'd pried up and fumbled out of his coveralls, following in the direction he'd seen the spirit take before.   
  
Harry searched the entire first floor without success, and the second and third yielded the same result. Feeling rather defeated, Harry wandered into the parlor and dropped down into one of the seats that he'd previously dusted and cleaned, worn out and frustrated. He tilted his head back over the back of the seat, closing his eyes momentarily. He wasn't sure where to start looking next, or if he should bother continuing. Clearly, the specter could only be found or seen when it wanted to be, and it didn't look like it was too keen on running into Harry again in the near future.   
  
Faintly, Harry could hear music. His eyes shot open as he perked up, alert, and focused on the sound. It seemed to be coming from a distant room, deep within the house. Harry rose from his seat and followed the sound up a flight of stairs and down the hall to the second floor den with the large piano, but as he drew closer he recognized it to be a soft, jazzy tune with the accompaniment of the aged crackle of a record player. Laughter sounded from behind the closed door as Harry drew closer. Someone shouted inaudibly as the music played on and there was a loud crackle of spellfire followed by another swell of chatter and exclamations from many voices urging the caster on in their display.  
  
Internally preparing himself for whatever he may find on the other side, Harry reached forward and opened the door in one swift motion. When he stepped inside, he was greeted with a silent, empty room. The record player turntable spun soundlessly with the needle lifted just above it. Harry frowned, walking over and turning off the record player before glancing about the room. The den was much the same as it had been before, with lush, velvety furniture and the ornate muraled piano in the corner, but scattered over the side tables and piano top were a variety of scotch glasses, and an old glass decanter had been taken out from the liquor cabinet.   
  
It was strange, Harry thought as he put away the glasses and decanter. He wondered if this was more of Tom's work. Was he trying to show him something, or was it merely a parting glimpse at the past, too filmy and faded with time to be understandable?   
  
Having a feeling that he wasn't going to be finding much else in regards to his spectral acquaintance if he didn't desire to be found, Harry went back downstairs and set about cleaning up the servant's quarters. It didn't take much work to make it presentable. The room was extremely small, but livable. He left the door open to air it out then set about putting a fresh coat of white paint over the walls and _scourgifying_ the remaining flooring. A bit of transfiguration and another coat of paint on the door removed any sign of the scratch marks left behind by desperate house elves. Harry vanished the old piles of rags that appeared to have once been their bedding, and looked about the empty room feeling rather pleased with his progress. Three rooms cleaned and livable wasn't too bad, by his mark. Now if he could just ensure that the plumbing was working properly and clear out one of the bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, he'd be able to start moving his things in.   
  
He went back into the dining room and sat down at the table, picking up one of his home repair books and settling down to read for a bit and see if there wasn't anything else useful he could apply before he ran out of energy. He was beginning to flag a bit, but he still wanted to get at least one more thing done before he headed home for the day. Eventually, realizing he'd read the same sentence three times in a row, he dog-eared the page and closed the book to look over later. Deciding he was done for the day, Harry went to the coat rack and began to take down his coat, only to notice movement from the corner of his eye.   
  
The specter had returned and was looking over the work he'd done in repairing and repainting the servant's quarters. As he watched, the being tested the sturdiness of the new flooring carefully, then opened the door slightly wider at the realization that Harry had oiled the hinges and they no longer creaked. Harry couldn't tell as to whether there was any expression on the creature's face at this distance, but his body was tense and unsettled. Pulling on the other sleeve of his jacket, Harry turned fully to face it. The being was about the right height, and its body type matched to Riddle's--or at least, what Harry had seen of Riddle in his dream the previous night, which may not cross quite so smoothly into the reality of who Tom Riddle had been and what he'd been like.   
  
Harry took a chance.   
  
"Tom?"   
  
The specter's head snapped to attention, volcanic eyes latching onto Harry, who felt his heart leap into his throat. _It was him._ He was at a loss, as to what to say next.   
  
_**"Yes?"**_ The specter--no, _Tom Riddle--_ questioned, back straightening as he turned to face Harry fully, striking a rather imposing figure.   
  
"I'm going to find out what happened to you."   
  
A cold, faithless laugh tore through the air. _**"Oh, will you now?"**_ Riddle appeared suddenly directly before him, and Harry unconsciously staggered back until he felt his back collide with the door. Riddle continued his approach until he stood barely a foot away and snapped his hand out, grasping Harry's chin sharply with long, blackened fingers. **_"And how do you expect to do that?"_** he murmured, tilting Harry's face up to his own. His touch _burned_ and Harry reared back in an attempt to free himself but Riddle held fast, nails digging into his skin.   
  
"I'm a Detective," Harry said forcefully, meeting Riddle's gaze with equal thunder and shoving his fear into a dark corner in the back of his mind to address later. "It's my duty to find answers to the hardest questions out there. I'm sure there are people out there who are anxious to find out what happened to you, Riddle."   
  
This painfully close to Riddle, Harry could see the slight suggestion of lips curving into a wide, unsettling smirk beneath the haze of smoke rising from Riddle's skin. **_"Didn't I tell you to call me Tom?"_**  
  
Harry felt goosebumps break out on his skin as a cold chill swept through him. "How?" he choked out. It had only been a dream, hadn't it? Just a dream. The Tom Riddle before him now was such a terrifying figure, so deeply polarized to the handsome, soft-spoken man that had conversed in such familiar terms, but he _knew._  
  
A deep, low chuckle sounded from within Riddle, and he released his grip on Harry's chin. **_"You of all people should understand that some things have no simple explanation."_**

Now that just wasn't fair. He'd been swooping about the place, terrifying the living daylights out of Harry, and he was not going to _settle_ for a simple non-explanation out of sheer terror. "Try me," Harry challenged, stepping up to the spirit and planting his hands on his hips solidly.  
  
Riddle smiled unsettlingly, displaying sharpened teeth. **_"I cannot tell whether you are very brave, or very foolish. Perhaps a bit of both. But perhaps that is what it will take."_ **Tom stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back and regarding Harry curiously, eyes narrowed into deep red slits. _**"You will return to finish your work, I expect."**_

"Well you haven't scared me off yet," Harry retorted, "though you seem to be trying very, very hard, which is rather counterproductive. You want this place to be livable, don't you? You _need_ me here." Riddle was visibly irritated by this remark, Harry noted, feeling more than a little pleased with himself. "And when I move in, you're going to have to learn to deal with that." With that said Harry turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving Riddle standing there in the hallway, furious and alone.


	7. A Welcoming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Listening for this chapter: Ritual Fire Dance from El Amor Brujo, by Manuel De Falla

Harry awoke the next morning feeling listless and irritated. He burrowed back underneath the covers he'd kicked off at some point during the night, grumbling unintelligibly to himself as he fell into the sweet, delicious lie of 'just five more minutes, and then I'll get up'. Riddle was _expecting_ his return after all, and part of Harry wanted to avoid Blackbarrow for a bit just to spite him. Sleeping in and then spending the day lazing about, or perhaps doing a bit more planning on renovations without returning to the manor was a pleasant idea, in light of that. Harry had goals, however, and a deadline that he wanted to meet--moving into the manor before he officially returned to work. Much as Harry tended to operate on sheer stubbornness at times, he wasn't about to disrupt his plans just for the sake of his own pettiness. _  
  
_With a frustrated groan, Harry dragged himself out from under the covers and shrugged into his housecoat and slippers, stopping into the bathroom momentarily and then wandering downstairs, only to pause on the stairwell at the sound of barely-hushed, angry voices in the kitchen.  
  
It was a rare thing for his parents to argue these days--when they were younger and just getting started raising a family together, Sirius had told him it was not uncommon for them to clash. Harry's memories of such arguments were vague and foggy with the distance of youth, but the way Sirius talked about them, it made sense. They'd grown up in different settings and as a result had very opposing values. James grew up the sole child of a wealthy family, heir to a fortune and the expectations therein. He'd never cooked for himself a day in his life, wanted for nothing, didn't have to lift a finger to clean up after himself. Lily, conversely, had been the second daughter of a lower middle class muggle family and was scandalized at the idea of not knowing how to nor wanting to take care of yourself or your living space. Naturally, that resulted in a variety of clashes over everything from how to clean the household to how they were going to raise Harry, himself.   
  
This seemed different, though. Harry muffled his footsteps with a quick spell and carefully slipped downstairs to stand just outside the kitchen doorway, where his parents both stood by the kitchen table. His mother was holding a newspaper in her hands, and his father was attempting to take it from her.   
  
"He's already been through so much, Lils, we can't drop this on top of him now!" he hissed. "Give me the paper."   
  
"No. Harry has a right to know what he's going to be returning to," Lily stated, hiding the paper behind her back. "That bloody Skeeter woman can go hang for this, but Harry needs to know that there's been a development involving him. He deserves that much at the very least, considering--"  
  
"I'm just trying to protect him!" James insisted, lunging forward and snatching the newspaper from his mother. "It can wait until he's ready to go back--"  
  
Harry had heard more than enough. He stepped into the doorway, facing them both. "Protect me from what?"   
  
Lily's hands clenched at her sides. James sighed and held out the copy of the Daily Prophet.   
  
"We knew we couldn't suppress the story forever, but to have it break like this is...something else."  
  
Harry flipped the paper open and turned it to the front page. The headline glared at him alongside photographs of four smiling, happy little girls.  
  


**A KILLER AMONG US  
  
 _By Rita Skeeter_**

**Early yesterday morning a body was discovered deep within the bowels of Knockturn Alley. As I am sure my readers know, this in itself is neither a strange nor uncommon occurrence in such a place. It was, however, strange for the fact that the body belonged to one Irvina Bulstrode, the sweet, innocent youngest child of Brutus and Gloriana Bulstrode. Brutus had reported four days prior to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that Irvina had disappeared suddenly during a trip to Diagon with her mother and the search began in earnest only to end in tragedy. One questions why it took several hours for Aurors to inform the Bulstrodes that their daughter had been found, particularly considering the rather disturbing manner of her appearance. That is, that the child was discovered when she walked down the street of Knockturn of her own volition and proceeded to attack the first passerby to accidentally bump into her with her bare hands and teeth. Yes, readers, you read that right. Poor Irvina Bulstrode had been the victim of a terrible dark magic of the most abhorrent sort; NECROMANCY.  
  
It was a terrible surprise, my dear readers, most terrible indeed particularly for the man whose throat was mangled and who was rushed off to Mungo's to deal with the bite wounds of a young Inferi, but it is my deepest regret to inform you that the tragedy does NOT end there! No, this is only the latest in a string of murders that have been suppressed from the public eye but it is my DUTY to keep you informed, and I bear that burden with a heavy heart today. Irvina Bulstrode was the most recent of four little girls to have disappeared only to reappear, dead, after a week's time had passed in Knockturn. The first was Alice Braxton, a child who had, until her disappearance, been living on Florence Street off Knockturn with her mother, whom one may question the wisdom of for raising a child so close to the streets of Knockturn, but that is neither here nor there. Regrettably, it appears that her vanishing was seen as an all too common occurrence and was blamed at first upon the local Hag population by our illustrious Aurors, and so was written off until the child's body was discovered just behind The Red Herring Pub as their busboy was taking out the trash for the evening.   
  
Likewise, the body of Patricia Weasley, the daughter of Percival and Penny Weasley who disappeared not from the market or unsupervised play in the street, but from her very own bed in the dead of night, was discovered lying in a trash heap not far from Knockturn Alley, one week after her original disappearance. The third child that was discovered, Betty Price, was of muggleborn origin and had regretfully only been reported missing to Muggle Law Enforcement. I am told that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is currently cooperating with Muggle Police to gather any and all evidence that they can in regards to the circumstances under which she was taken. Mercifully, neither Patricia Weaasley, Betty Price, or Alice Braxton had been turned into an inferi by their murderer, but preliminary reports suggest that their bodies had been subjected to an inordinate amount of dark magic of unknown origin. One can only speculate on what horrors these children witnessed before their untimely passing but one thing remains clear: a KILLER walks among us, and he or she has an eye on our children.   
  
Interestingly, it appears that the lead investigator on this case was one Harry Potter, the son of DMLE Head Auror James Potter, who has only been on the field a mere two years! Suspiciously, Harry Potter has since been removed from the case on excuse of being too close to an affected party, as a family friend and associate to Percy Weasley, and relegated to the Cold Case Sector of the DMLE. Potter has recently left the department altogether and his current whereabouts are unknown, though it has been suggested that he is on 'medical leave' due to trauma. One wonders what Auror James Potter was thinking, putting a rookie Auror on such a high profile case, especially one who appears to have a low tolerance for the ugly things one may encounter in a career as an Auror. One could almost consider that there may have been nepotism involved in that appointment, but as we all know, our law enforcement personnel are working very hard to solve this case and catch this crazed killer, understandably with minimal evidence. One wonders if perhaps the new case head will be taking their search in a new direction or resorting to more thorough, practiced methods than their predecessor, as the DMLE appears to have made little headaway in discovering the identity of the murderer. As it stands, Auror presence on Knockturn and the surrounding streets has been sharply increased in light of these events. It is of great concern, however, as to whether such an increase in feet on the ground where bodies have been discovered may not be misdirection of Auror resources and whether it may perhaps be a better decision on the part of the DMLE to focus on protecting wizarding children from being at risk of kidnapping in the first place.   
  
In the meantime, until this individual is identified and brought to justice, this reporter HIGHLY recommends keeping a close and careful eye on your children, especially if they are young girls between the age of three and six. The killer could be anyone, perhaps even the person we least suspect. **

The article went on from there, but Harry couldn't bring himself to read any further. He crumpled the paper in his hand. "Nepotism, huh. And I've obviously got too weak of a stomach to do the job, that's exactly what this is, I can't believe that I couldn't see it before, it's OBVIOUSLY my fault that we haven't caught the bastard yet," Harry laughed humorlessly. "I hope that Skeeter woman dies in a fire." Throwing the paper in the garbage, he looked to his father. "I'm less concerned about that than I am about the fact that another body was found and you didn't tell me."  
  
"What she's doing is stoking fear among the general populace," James sighed. "Someone talked. I thought we were airtight on keeping it under wraps, but someone talked, like they always do. Bloody useless self-serving pigs," he muttered.   
  
"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"   
  
"And what _purpose_ would it serve for me to have told you, Harry?" James burst out, throwing his arms wide. "You're not on the case anymore and showing you the details of it will only stress you out further--"   
  
"What, because you don't trust me to be involved anymore?" Harry snarled. "That considering how much work I did on the first three that I couldn't be of some use to the current investigation, maybe see something they've missed?"  
  
"Because I think that you are EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED!" James roared, "You thought you HAD him and you put an innocent man in the bloody hospital, Harry!"  
  
"He wasn't innocent!"  
  
"But he wasn't the killer and you BROKE the law and nearly killed a man! I have been doing EVERYTHING I CAN to clean up after the mess you left behind on this case and I can't have you getting involved in this again! We are not judge and jury, Harry! That's not what it is to be an Auror!"

The two of them fell silent, the weight of what his father had said hanging between them.  
  
"I see how it is," Harry bit out. "I think I'll take my leave, then."   
  
"Harry, don't go, your father didn't mean to say it like that--"   
  
"Oh, I think he got his meaning across pretty clearly," Harry spat. "I'm not wanted here, so I'll get out of your hair then so you don't have to tip-toe around me while you focus on your job." With that said, Harry stormed upstairs. It was quick work for him to shrink down his furniture and throw all of his possessions into his old school trunk and all he could think was _Merlin, I'm not ready for this but it's got to be now._ He couldn't be in this house anymore. Not with his father, not with the absolute cock-up Harry had made of what was the most important case of his short career dangling over their heads.  
  
His mother appeared in the doorway and at the sight of him packing, pleaded, "Harry don't leave like this, it's not right--"  
  
"Nothing's been right in MONTHS, mum!" he snapped. "He's been dancing around me ever since the incident and now another girl is dead and I can't DO anything!"   
  
"What are you going to do then?"   
  
"SOMETHING!" Harry exploded. "SOMETHING ELSE, ANYTHING ELSE! I'm still a bloody auror, I still have a job to do! There are still people looking for answers that haven't gotten them in DECADES on some of the cases I'm working. The LEAST I can do is prove that I'm still halfway competent! If I can solve one, even just ONE case that everyone else has given up on, then maybe being an Auror was worth it. But if I can't do that? Maybe this isn't the right career for me! I've just been following in Dad's footsteps and not thinking for myself up until this point, it's time for me to start taking back control over my own life!"   
  
"Do you really want to do this out of anger, Harry?" Lily asked softly, "moving into your own place should be something to celebrate as a new stage in your life, not...not this."   
  
"I don't think I really have a choice at this point, mum," Harry said bitterly, hefting his trunk onto a roller and latching it on. "Either way, I think it's past time."   
  
His mother reached out and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him into a tight hug. "Harry, there is _always_ a choice, there is always another option. Don't forget that, and don't you _dare_ be a stranger. I'm not going to make excuses for your father, he has his reasons for saying what he said, but don't hate him for it. He has his own limitations and expectations that he needs to meet, just as you do."   
  
Harry grumbled under his breath, but hugged her back just as tightly. "Love you, mum."   
  
"I love you too, Harry. Be safe in that place, and if anything happens you _know_ you can come right back here any time."  
  
Reluctantly, Harry separated from his mother and cast a featherlight charm on his trunk. Hefting Hedwig's cage in his hand, he tromped down the stairs and out the door to the back lawn, and apparated away.  
  


* * *

  
Blackbarrow Manor was waiting for him when he arrived. The lights flickered to life as he entered and threw his coat carelessly over the rack by the front door next to Tom's old one. The floor wasn't clean enough for Harry to walk about in socks so he didn't bother taking off his shoes, sourly drying them with a quick spell and stomping into the dining room with his trunk. Stopping in the doorway, he let out a heavy, miserable sigh and dropped his trunk on the floor.   
  
He'd really done it this time, hadn't he?

Where was he even going to sleep? The mattresses in the two guest bedrooms were dusty and had long since been eaten through and burrowed into by generations of mice. The only room that was even remotely finished was the servant's quarters. Honestly, though, did he need more than that? Harry wasn't picky, and all things considered it was only half the size his own bedroom had been back in Godric's Hollow. He didn't feel all that great about the idea of sleeping in a room that two house elves had died in, but it wasn't like he had any more immediate options. His father would probably have joked at him about living in what amounted to an oversized cupboard just past the stairwell, but Harry stolidly forced that thought down. He didn't care what his father thought. He'd make this work, somehow.   
  
Opening his trunk, he summoned his shrunken mattress and bed frame and brought it into the room, tossing them down on the floor and returning the furniture to its original size. It just barely fit into the space, but it would be comfortable enough for a night or two. He'd have to decide which of the rooms he wanted to take for himself, or see if he could break into the Master bedroom which he suspected to be located behind one of the numerous locked doors in the house. Dropping down to sit on the bed, he stared at the whitewashed wall opposite him. What was he supposed to do now?   
  
Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there caught up in his own thoughts, still coming down from the rush of adrenaline sparked by the argument with James. He had had plans for his day before, but he'd need to reconfigure his goals and roll with the new situation he found himself in.   
  
_"You do realize there are several perfectly serviceable rooms on the third floor, don't you?"_

Harry jolted upright, nearly falling off the bed as Riddle stepped out from the shadows of the room, looking down at him disapprovingly with narrowed red eyes. "Riddle!"   
  
_"I do believe I requested you call me Tom,"_ the specter reminded him. 

"Tom, then," Harry corrected, leaning back against the wall. He couldn't seem to muster up the energy to even be on the alert to the ghost's presence, but he didn't seem to be much of any danger right now. If anything, he appeared to be curiously assessing the situation, as his eyes flicked from Harry's little bed shoved into the room to his trunk left just past the open door. 

_"You have brought your things, I see."_

"Yeah, I had an, um. Disagreement, with my parents. I'm moving in a bit earlier than I planned," Harry admitted, closing his eyes.   
  
Riddle regarded him with an inscrutable expression, red eyes seeming to look directly through him. _"You are woefully unprepared for this."_

"I gathered as much, yeah," Harry snipped back, then sighed. "Sorry, it's been a rough morning. I should...clear out a room or something."  
  
Riddle was silent for a moment then said, **_"_** _You are the heir to the Potter family, are you not?"_ Harry nodded, raising his eyes to look up at Riddle. _"You have not been disowned, have you?"_

He shook his head. "No, we just argued."  
  
 _"Then you have finances. Pick one of the bedrooms. Take the furniture in the room to a reupholstery repair shop and get a fresh mattress and bedding to fit one of the frames for a_ proper _bed rather than the dreadful little thing you have there. Hire some help to assist in maintaining the house, purchase food and cleaning supplies, and any other household items you may need in the modern era. You aren't incapable of meeting your basic needs."_

"Hire some help? You're talking about getting a house elf, aren't you?"

_"Do you genuinely believe that you will have the time and energy to maintain this entire house on your own once you return to work?"_

Harry frowned. He knew next to nothing about house elves except that they were often mistreated, if Hermione's complaints about the complete lack of respect for her focus on the creatures at work was anything to go by. And realistically, the ghost was right. He only had another week and a half before he'd be expected to return to the DMLE, and precious little time to clean on top of dealing with repairs around the house. "I don't know about that, it doesn't seem right. I honestly don't know the next thing about house elves." 

_"Then there is no better time to educate yourself than the present. Now get up and stop wallowing, you have work to do."_ With that said, Riddle swept from the room, disappearing down the hallway. 

Harry glared after the ghost sourly. "Bossy, aren't you?" he grumbled. Much as he hated to admit it though, Riddle didn't seem to be wrong and his advice had been sound. With an annoyed huff, Harry got up and made his way upstairs to check out the bedrooms and figure out where else he could sleep.   
  
There were six unused bedrooms that he could find, in all. He settled on one that had a fireplace and three large, tall windows on one side and an entry onto a small balcony--perhaps the same one he, Ron, and Hermione had first seen Riddle on as they'd been leaving the property, some days ago. It was quite spacious, but had the potential to be rather cozy once it was cleaned up a bit. A good half hour of knocking about later, Harry had shrunken down two chairs and an upholstered bench that had sat at the end of the bed frame to bring with him to Diagon. He decided upon further examination that the carpeting would need to be replaced, but the flooring underneath it would look good as new with a fresh waxing. He didn't care for the bed frame that had been present in the room--it was a bit too ostentatious for his tastes, with flowing curtains surrounding a solid, ornately-carved frame. Instead, he vanished that mattress and shrank down the frame to be stored away, and brought in a simpler one he'd discovered in one of the other rooms. It wasn't really as hard as he'd expected to clean out the dusty nooks and crannies of the room, with a bit of spellwork. A simple wave of his wand sent a gout of ash and coal dust shooting up the chimney as he cleared out any blockages in the fireplace. It was times like these that Harry found himself very glad to be a wizard.

All in all it took a good hour and a half to clean and clear out the room of any furniture he didn't need. The ensuite bathroom, however, took a bit more work. It was a rather lavish affair, with black and white floor tiling and a claw-footed tub placed parallel to a single window that matched the ones in the bedroom in height. A quick test and a clog-clearing spell later, and the plumbing was working. The entire room would need a good scrubbing down though, and there was a bit of mold on the ceiling that would take some work. As it was, it was usable and that was enough to meet Harry's needs for him to be satisfied. Best of all though, the work kept him from focusing on the argument with his father. It was nice, really, to lose himself in the work of cleaning and repairing the house.   
  
Not entirely satisfied with only having three things to bring in for repair, Harry went down to the parlor and shrank down a good majority of the furniture in there to bring in as well. Settled with that, he picked out the coat his mother had gotten him the previous year--a pricey one, since it had built-in expanding pockets--and stowed away the little dollhouse-sized furniture to bring to Diagon. He felt a bit grubby and dusty from the houswork, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be put off until later. Harry was very much looking forward to trying out that claw-footed tub later and making sure that the plumbing was working properly enough that he could soak off the day's labor with a hot bath. Running his fingers through his hair carelessly and then throwing on a hat after he got his broom out from his trunk, Harry took one backwards glance at the property and set off to Diagon.  
  


* * *

  
Flitrip's Upholstery wasn't hard to find; their storefront window contained a lavishly-decorated carved chair with a lovely brocade fabric, curtains displaying a variety of different fabric styles hanging behind them. Inside, Gladdius Flitrip's workshop was a widely-expanded area full of all sorts of different furniture varieties, with one wall hung with all sorts of different tools and all other available space completely covered by stacks upon stacks of different bolts of fabric. Flitrip himself was a bright, sprightly fellow who clearly had a recent bit of goblin ancestry, judging by his diminutive height and tapered ears that stuck out widely from the sides of his balding head, and the fact that there were two goblins seated in back working on ripping out the cotton interior of an old Queen Anne-style chair down to its bones.   
  
"Ah, a customer!" he piped, "just one moment and I'll be right with you!" With a flick of an oversized wand, Flitrip sent a rather wicked-looking large needle diving in and out of the batting in the rather ostentatiously-designed sofa that he was repairing. "There we are!" he announced, hopping down from the stool he'd been seated on and hurrying up to Harry, "Now how can I assist you, good sir?"

"I recently purchased an old manor," Harry explained, "that is full of old furniture. The frames are all in great condition, but the mice and bugs and well, time, I suppose, have gotten to the stuffing and the fabrics. It's a big project, but i want to go room by room and get each piece reupholstered to match as close as possible to what it was like before it was abandoned."

"Goodness me that sounds like _quite_ the tall order, and a pricey one at that if we're matching to older fabrics, but there's certainly nothing I'm not capable of in that regard!" Flitrip exclaimed. "Have you brought a few pieces to get started?"  
  
"I did," Harry responded, hurriedly taking the few shrunken pieces out of his pockets and setting them out to display on the nearest table. "I also need new mattresses for a few bedrooms, but I wasn't sure where I could purchase those."

"I can direct you on where to go for that, Mr...."  
  
"Potter, Harry Potter."

"Mr. Potter! Well these are lovely bits of work here," Flitrip exclaimed, resizing the pieces to be a bit bigger with a flick of his wand so he could get a better look at the details and damage. "I'll write you a price quote and we'll see if it works for you. I'm sure we can haggle it a bit if need be."  
  
"Price doesn't matter," said Harry. "I've got the money for it, like I said, and you clearly do good work here if anything I'm seeing in your shop is anything to judge by. There's no rush on getting it completed, so maybe we can work out a time frame and I can drop off new pieces each time I pick up the finished ones, if that works for you."   
  
"I would owl you as soon as any work you've commissioned is completed, Mr. Potter, so that certainly can be arranged. I'm sure it will be a pleasure doing business with you!"   
  
After a bit of further discussion and a few suggestions from Flitrip on where to buy other household fabrics, Harry made a few pit stops at a variety of different stores and left carrying a shrunken mattress and matching sheets and bedding, his Nimbus slung over his back as he wandered along, glancing at shops here and there and trying to think of what else he'd need. "It would have been really helpful if I'd thought to make a list," he muttered to himself. One sign stuck out to him, as he was passing by.   
  


HOUSE ELF PLACEMENT AGENCY: DOMESTIC HELP, STEADFAST STAFF, ENDORSED ELVES! 

  
The signage was written in large, bold lettering over the front of the small cornerstore, without any further embellishment or imagery, but it got the point across. Steeling himself, Harry pushed the door open, a bell atop it tinkling loudly to announce his entry as he slipped inside. A middle-aged wizard with wiry brown hair slicked back tight to his skull glanced up from a heavy tome that a quick-quotes quill was notating in. "May I help you?" he questioned.   
  
"Yeah, um. I think, I mean. I've never had a house elf before--"  
  
"Well we can certainly fix that, young man!" the wizard chuckled, rising from his seat and reaching out to grasp Harry's hand and pump it up and down forcefully, "Richard Diggsby, at your service! Now, what sort of house elf are you looking for? We've got five adults, two elders, and one young one in stock at present."   
  
Harry drew back and surreptitiously wiped his hand on his coat, more than a little disgusted at the man talking about these creatures as if they were cattle. "I've got a big three story manor with one rather ornery ghost, so I'd expect one that doesn't mind living with a spirit in the house."  
  
"Well why don't you take a look at your options then, I'm sure that we can place one that will be a right proper fit to your household! Now would you be looking for a lifelong house elf, or are you looking for something a bit cheaper? The old ones are half-price!"  
  
Harry stared openly at the man for a moment. Richard reminded him rather unflatteringly of a particularly sleazy used car salesman, in that moment, and his yellow-and-green pinstriped suit and bowler hat wasn't doing much but adding to the image. "Um. I'm really fine with either."   
  
"I've got a young female adult that comes from excellent stock," Richard suggested, "she'll be of breeding age in about another year, if you're interested in our program for that. Then you'll have two house elves for the price of one!"   
  
"Breeding?" Harry blanched.   
  
"Oh yes, we've got one of the most reputable programs in all of the United Kingdom. We carefully match each prospective elf with the most desirable qualities together so that you have the perfect servant for generations to come!"   
  
Harry couldn't keep the expression of visceral horror off of his face at the thought of what that would entail for this elf.   
  
"Ah, not a fan of that idea I see," Richard waved off dismissively, "how about a more experienced elf? We've got two out of our current adult stock that have previously belonged to other households--and I assure you that even though they're secondhand they're just as capable as a new one!"   
  
"I've...I've got to think about this," Harry stammered out. "I'll be back later."   
  
This had been a bad idea, Harry thought as he fled out the door and around the corner, leaning back against an old building to take a breather and process the positively abhorrent experience he'd just had. Hermione really hadn't been understating it, when she'd talked about the general disregard that wizards had for house elves and other sentient creatures. It was no wonder she was having difficulty with enforcement of the House Elf Protection Laws--which, after today, he was definitely going to be reading up on. That, and stopping by the ministry to have a very long talk with Hermione. Maybe he could talk with Sirius's brother Regulus, who'd inherited the old Black family house elf. He was wasn't close with the man, but surely he'd have a bit of advice as well. 

The more that Harry thought about it, the more disturbed he became. The idea of giving money to the creep that ran the shop and paying into this disgusting trade made him feel more than a little sick, but the idea of leaving a house elf there to whatever fate may throw their way made him feel far worse.   
  
Taking a deep breath, Harry rounded the corner and went back into the shop. Mr. Diggsby greeted him brightly. "Have you made your decision, then?"   
  
"The ah, the young female elf you were talking about. May I see her?"   
  
"Ah hah! I knew that would catch your eye!" Diggsby announced. "Just one moment!" He rushed up the back stairwell, leaving Harry alone in the shop wondering if he was making the right decision, but the moment that he returned Harry knew that there was no way he could leave this house elf behind. "This is Pella. Twenty-eight years old and sprightly as a fairy!"   
  
She was a small thing, just a bit taller than his knees as she peered out anxiously from behind Mr. Diggsby, clinging to the edge of his coat. Mousy brown hair hung in oily locks down to her thin shoulders and enormous, oversized blue eyes stared up at Harry. She was dressed in what looked to be a scratchy old bath towel that had been folded over, a hole hacked out from the middle for her head and sewn shut on the sides sloppily. Diggsby stepped away from her and pushed her toward Harry. She stumbled and nearly fell flat but stood between the two of them, clutching handfuls of her towel and biting her lip, eyes focused down on the floor.   
  
There was no way Harry was leaving her here.   
  
He crouched down on one knee until he was closer to her height. "Hi there Pella, my name's Harry Potter." She raised her eyes up to his slowly. "I'd like to share my home with you, if that's alright with you."   
  
She bit her lip. "That's not my choice to be making, Mister Potter, Sir."   
  
"Well I want it to be your choice," Harry said gently. "You'd have your own room, as much food as you could possibly want, and anything else you need. The house has a rather scary ghost, but otherwise it's a big place and I would really appreciate some help turning it into a home."   
  
Pella glanced back over her shoulder at Mr. Diggsby, who looked at her rather ferociously and hissed, "Don't spoil this!" under his breath, then said more brightly to Harry, "it sounds like you've got a rather large place. Are you sure you're not interested in two house elves?"  
  
Harry clenched his hands. "You know what? I think I am. Give me your most unemployable house elf."  
  
"...come again?"   
  
"Your most unemployable house elf," Harry repeated. "Whichever one is impossible to sell, or has been returned six or seven times, or can't even work, I don't care. Whichever one you can't possibly sell."   
  
"That's...unprecedented," Mr. Diggsby said, frowning a bit. "But...well, there is one. He's a hateful little thing though."  
  
"That's just peachy with me," Harry grated out. "I'll take him."   
  
"I'll ah, be right back." Diggsby was gone for several minutes, leaving Harry alone with Pella, who eyed him mistrustfully.  
  
"Why is you wanting the worst house elf?" Pella questioned tentatively.  
  
"Because I hate this place and everything it stands for," said Harry. "You deserve to have a good home and be treated well. I don't want to be your master, I want us to work together as equals because this is going to be your home as much as it is mine."   
  
Pella goggled openly at him. "I is never hearing of someone wanting this."  
  
"No, I bet you wouldn't have, being in a place like this," Harry said miserably. "It's a lot to take in, I'll bet. But I want you to live the way house elves _should_ be treated and cared for, not the way that they _are_ being treated."  
  
Pella wrung her hands in her towel, deep in thought, before finally responding, "I would be being amenable to this."   
  
Harry smiled for the first time since he'd entered this awful place. "Then I look forward to us working together."   
  
At that moment, Diggsby returned and deposited an older, crochety male house elf before him. The fingers on his left hand were deformed and one of his eyes stared forward, filmy and sightless. He wore a pair of mismatched, ill-fitting boots and a ratty old scarf around his neck that clashed poorly with the worn gray pillowcase that clothed him. "This is Yobbie. He's been let go by three different households and he's got a bum hand. I'll sell him to you for thirty sickles. The girl's worth a good sixty galleons, but since you're taking this one off my hands I'll lower it to fifty-five. Sound reasonable?"   
  
Harry counted out the amount and shoved it across the counter to Diggsby, who shoved the lot of it into the register. "I'll need to know the house name and your family name, for the records and so we may drop by to bind them to the property."   
  
"Oh, that won't be necessary," said Harry.   
  
"Whyever not?"   
  
"Well, I'm going to free them."   
  
Pella blanched. "But you is just getting us!" Yobbie just looked like he didn't believe a word of it.   
  
"Come again? You can't be serious!" Diggsby stumbled.   
  
"I'm going to free them," Harry repeated simply. "If they live and work in my house it will be their choice, I won't force it upon them. What you're doing here is slavery, and it's despicable."  
  
With that said Harry offered his hand to Pella, who took it carefully. Yobbie looked at the hand that Harry offered to him and let out a loud harrumph before falling into step just beside him as they walked out onto Diagon.   
  
Pella shivered in the chill October air. Yobbie hunched a bit more tightly in on himself, glaring mistrustfully at Harry from the corner of his eye. "W-what are we doing now, Master Potter?" Pella fumbled out, glancing up at him.  
  
"First off," said Harry, "I'm freeing both of you. If you choose to live with me I would welcome both of you in my household," Harry said, looking to Yobbie. "Regardless of whether you can work. You're not required to clean or cook, but I would certainly appreciate a little help. In return I'd give you both your own beds to sleep in, whatever food you wish for, and anything else you need. I'll even get you a few sets of _proper_ clothes that you can wear whenever you want. I'm not your master. I'm never going to be your master. But I'd like to be your friend, if possible."  
  
Yobbie frowned at him. "You're a strange one," he said gruffly. "But I got nowhere else to go."   
  
"Clothes?" Pella questioned, looking scandalized.   
  
"Would it be better if I gave you fabric for you to make your own?" Harry suggested. "I don't really...know much of anything about house elf customs or rules or anything like that, but it's silly for you to be walking about in a towel when the weather's only going to get colder.   
  
"You is not saying just clothes, you is saying whole outfits!" Pella exclaimed, tugging at her hair lightly.   
  
"Is that...is that a bad thing? Don't you want to wear something warm and comfortable?" Harry questioned.   
  
Pella looked at him scrutinizingly. "I could...I could have a hat," she announced finally. "If I is the one choosing."   
  
"You could," Harry encouraged, "You could even have a dress, and a nice pair of shoes!"   
  
"I could be...making my own clothes?" Pella suggested carefully.   
  
"I'll get you some for now," said Harry. "But if that's more comfortable for you, then we can definitely buy proper fabric for clothes."   
  
Pella's eyes brightened. "Can I has a hat with a flower on it?" she questioned tentatively.   
  
"I'll get you whatever hat you want. Are either of you hungry? I don't have any food at the house yet, so we should probably get some here and get a bit of shopping out of the way before we head back."  
  
"Most restaurants is not going to be letting you bring house elves to eat," Yobbie interjected, breaking his silence. "Most businesses is not going to sell you clothes for house elves. House elves is only getting things that is being discarded."  
  
"Then I'll figure something out," Harry said forcefully.   
  
This turned out to be quite the adventure. Harry was turned away from three different establishments before he finally just started blatantly lying. Twilfit and Tattings refused to sell or make anything for house elves. The shoemaker that Harry went to on Fletching, luckily, didn't care one way or another and sold Harry a pair of shoes for each of them. At noticing Yobbie eyeing a pair of large boots, Harry threw those in with the other two, pausing momentarily outside the shop and shrinking them down a bit until they fit him properly.  
  
Lastly, Harry found an old secondhand shop on Dawling St that had a children's clothing section that he could browse through and purchase whatever he wished. The cashier eyed him questioningly when he held up a small dress to Pella to see if it might fit her, but said nothing. Finally, Harry left the store with two pair of trousers and shrunken-down shirts for Yobbie, a mismatched coat for each of them, and two dresses for Pella, one plain and one printed with bright yellow sunflowers.  
  
Taking the coats out of their bags, he handed them to each elf. "And with that, you're free," he said, smiling.  
  
Pella buttoned hers up and gave Harry a small, nervous smile. Yobbie shrugged into his, muttering under his breath, but followed along as Harry purchased cleaning supplies and, on second thought, another twin bed that was somewhat similar to the one he had back at Blackbarrow.   
  
With most shopping finished, Harry finally stopped by a food cart and purchased three meat pies, distributing them out and seating himself on a bench outside Eyelop's Owl Emporium to dig in. "So, I should probably tell you both a bit about the house," said Harry, once Yobbie and Pella had started in on the pies. "It's a big manor; three stories tall, so there's plenty of space. It used to belong to an old wizarding family by the name of the Gaunts, but the last fellow to own it was named Tom Riddle. He was a dark wizard, so there's a good few dark objects here and there that I haven't located or categorized yet. You'll need to be careful of those as you go about the place. And Tom, well. Something bad happened to him. He's some kind of spirit now--he might be malevolent, but I don't think he'll pay either off you much mind as long as you don't disturb anything he doesn't want touched."  
  
"He's an evil ghost?" Pella questioned, looking at Harry with wide eyes.   
  
"I wouldn't say he's evil," said Harry, "but he's very sharp and he looks quite frightening. He doesn't look like a normal ghost at all."  
  
"I can be handling this," Pella said fiercely. "It is worth it for a nice home. I can be sleeping under the sink and staying out of the way of the ghost."  
  
"You don't need to sleep under the sink," Harry responded, "the place is actually really huge and it's just me and Tom living there right now. There's six whole bedrooms that are unoccupied--you both can sleep wherever you like, and I've got a bed for each of you."   
  
Yobbie was staring at him openly at this point. "No masters, and clothes, and a bed."   
  
"No master, clothes, and a bed," Harry repeated, smiling.   
  


* * *

  
It wasn't hard to side-along apparate both elves with him to Canesworth. He warned them to remain unseen where any muggles might catch a glimpse of them, and led them up the hill to Blackbarrow with little difficulty, absently noting that he was getting much better at picking through the woods for an appropriate path. Pella let out a small gasp at the sight of the property. Yobbie frowned and announced, "It looks like a dump. We've got work to do."   
  
"Don't say such rude things about Mr. Harry Potter's house!" Pella scolded.  
  
Yobbie looked entirely unbothered by this and groused out, "Where's the tool shed?"   
  
"I think there's one out back," Harry suggested, "but I haven't looked in it yet."   
  
"Alright," said Yobbie, "Let's see what the damage is."   
  
The two house elves wandered in, Pella with growing excitement and Yobbie with careful suspicion. "Here it is," said Harry. "The bedrooms are up on the third floor, if you'd like to take a look."   
  
"I is going to see the kitchen!" Pella announced, hurrying off to look about. "Harry Potter is unloading the groceries so Pella can put them away!" she called back to him as she rushed through the entry.   
  
"This place is chilly," Yobbie announced. "I'll get a fire going in the parlor."   
  
Much as he'd hated the experience, Harry could already tell he was going to enjoy having these two around. Pella seemed to settle in almost immediately, her shyness dropping in the face of some amount of familiarity and revealing a bright, bubbly personality. Yobbie was still gruff and hostile, but seemed to be ready to take on the task of cleaning and before Harry could suggest otherwise, immediately set to doing just that. Before Harry knew it there was a fire crackling away in the Parlor hearth and Pella was packing away the groceries he'd bought in the kitchen pantry, humming to herself cheerfully.

After stoking the fire, Yobbie returned to Harry's side and asked, "Where is Mister Potter wishing for us to sleep?"   
  
"You can pick any room you want," said Harry. "I've got a twin bed that we can shrink down to fit you a bit better, unless you'd rather keep it at full size, and we can put it wherever. Go ahead and take a look around and let me know which one you like best."   
  
The house elf disappeared off to look about, leaving Harry to unpack his things. Harry went upstairs to the bedroom he'd chosen, setting about fitting the mattress to the bed frame and making the bed with his new sheets. Just as he was finishing, Yobbie returned and announced, "Yobbie will take the smallest room, under the stairwell on the first floor."   
  
That was the servant's quarters, Harry realized with a start. "Are you sure you want that room? There was...well, the last owner met a bad end and so did his house elves--they died in that room, though it's been cleaned--"   
  
"Yobbie will take the smallest room," the house elf repeated forcefully. "It is clean and it is cozy."  
  
"If you're sure," said Harry. "My old bed's already in there, so you're welcome to it."   
  
Yobbie nodded gravely, then glanced about. "Is Mister Potter needing help with cleaning this room?"   
  
"Well, I've already cleaned it as best I could, but if you think there's more that could be done--"   
  
An ear-splitting shriek erupted from downstairs, startling both of them. Yobbie apparated with a loud CRACK before Harry could warn him not to. Cursing, Harry ran out into the hall and down the stairs two steps at a time as the screaming continued, skidding into the kitchen where Yobbie had reappeared. Pella's voice sputtered out into a small, terrified whimper as she curled up behind Yobbie, covering her eyes with her hands. Yobbie appeared to be fine despite having apparated, and Harry distantly remembered that the magic of house elves is markedly different from that of wizards.  
  
"What happened?" Harry questioned, looking about the room.   
  
"There was a...a thing," Pella stammered out, hysterical, "a tall, dark, _thing_ with red eyes--"

Harry's shoulders dropped. "That was Tom. Did he do anything?"  
  
"It was passing by," said Yobbie, "when I is getting down here it was leaving."

"He doesn't mean you any harm," Harry soothed, "He just looks like that because something bad happened to him. He probably came down to investigate because he heard us moving about." 

"You was not joking when you said the ghost is being very scary," Pella sobbed, "I is not wanting to live in a house with that!" 

Yobbie grabbed her by the shoulders. "It is not being bad here yet, pull yourself together! It didn't do anything and you's fine!"

"B-but it's scary!" Pella cried, clinging to him.   
  
Harry, feeling like there wasn't much else he could do, made her some hot chocolate from the new box of it he'd purchased on their grocery run, and when Yobbie guided her over to sit in front of the parlor fire, handed it off to her along with his kerchief.   
  
"I should tell you the full story," Harry said finally when her tears had abated down to small sniffles and the drink was half-gone. "Tom Riddle used to own this house. He was a very skilled dark wizard who disappeared many years ago under very strange circumstances. I've been looking about this house for clues and there wasn't much, but what was present pointed to something bad having happened to him. I'm not sure what specifically occurred, and he hasn't been very keen on telling me anything in that regard, so I'm still trying to put together what happened to him. But I am an auror it's my job to figure out what happened in these sorts of situations, so I'm doing the best I can and trying to get along with him since I need a home and he needs this place to be kept in good condition. I know he's scary looking but realistically, he's probably not going to try and interact with you very much, and this place is big. You may not see him very often," Harry explained, echoing Hermione's words. 

Pella finished off the rest of her hot chocolate and rubbed her nose, sniffling loudly. "You is very right that he is being scary. But you is also right that he is not hurting me."   
  
"I know it isn't something that will be easy to get used to. If there's anything I can do to make it easier on you, let me know."  
  
Pella's mouth tightened into a thin line and she drew herself up, puffy-eyed but straight-backed and announced, "Pella is not needing easy! Pella can handle the scary ghost! T-though Pella is still being scared of him." 

Harry smiled. "That's the spirit. Now why don't we pick out which room you want?"   
  
"I is still not believing that I is getting a whole room to myself."   
  
"The one under the stairs is mine!" Yobbie announced, "you can't have it."   
  
"I is not wanting that one," Pella sniffed, then looked to Harry with a tiny, hopeful smile. "Will Mister Harry Potter come with Pella to look in case the ghost comes back?"   
  
"Sure," Harry offered agreed.   
  
Much like Yobbie, Pella chose the smallest room she could find which, as it turned out, was a glorified closet on the second floor just next to the locked back stairwell. It seemed to Harry that the elves appeared to prefer small, enclosed spacies as Pella had balked at the idea of a bedroom with a window in it and immediately began seeking out every comfortable nook and cranny she could find. Harry un-shrank the twin bed and mattress he'd bought and resized it to fit in the back of the tiny room. "You can outfit this room any way you like. Anything that I'm not using is up for grabs, but ask first. We want to make sure that if you move something around, it's not something Tom will miss--he's rather nitpicky about the way in which the house is restored and utilized." Pella nodded enthusiastically at this explanation, and Harry watched as she very carefully folded the little dresses that she'd been given and placed them on the end of the bed.   
  
Distantly, Harry heard the scratch of a record player followed by a bright, warbling tune echoing through the house.   
  
"Are you sure you don't want one of the bigger rooms?" Harry questioned as Pella tested the mattress tentatively.   
  
"House elves is preferring to live in smaller spaces," Pella explained simply. "A room like this is very big for a house elf! At the Agency we is only having boxes with rags in them for sleeping. This is a...very big big change."  
  
"Yeah," Harry said darkly, "I think I'll be having a talk with my friend at the DRCMC about that place."   
  
"Is Mister Harry Potter having dinner at home today?" Pella questioned, "I can be bringing food up to you while you is working or setting the dining room table. There are many very nice dishes in the kitchen!"   
  
"Yeah, uh, I'd like that," Harry admitted, then paused. "What do house elves like to eat?"   
  
"We is usually eating scraps that are not eaten by the wizards we is serving," Pella explained.   
  
"Well that won't do," said Harry. "If you ever cook for me, make sure to make enough for yourself and Yobbie too, alright? I don't want either of you going hungry."   
  
Pella glanced at him from the corner of her eye and tentatively added, "House elves favorite foods is being bread and honey. It is a good reward for good work."  
  
Harry smiled. "I'll remember that, then. Let me know if there's anything else you need, alright?"  
  
"We is only using things that is discarded or not being used by the wizards," Pella said, nodding. "Pella will not be needing anything at all!"   
  
"If you say so," Harry frowned, but accepted it and left Pella to her own devices. It had been a very long day and, much as Harry was tired, there was still work to do. He went down to the parlor and filled the small urn next to it with fresh floo powder he'd purchased, tossing the last bit out of the bag into the fire. "Mossy Creek," he called out as it flared green, and he stuck his head through into their living room. "Hey Ron, Hermione, either of you home?" he called out.   
  
Ron startled from where he'd been snoozing on the couch, jumping up and walking over to the fire. "Harry! How's it going, mate?"   
  
"Uh, some stuff happened. I had a bit of an argument with my dad and ended up moving out a little earlier than planned."   
  
Ron's smile dropped. "Oh, yikes."   
  
"Yeah, yikes," Harry echoed tiredly. "I don't really want to talk about that part of it, but it's been a day. I fixed up a room for myself then went and did a ton of shopping. And uh, I did something a tad impulsive."   
  
"Oh boy. What did you do now?" 

"Well, I dropped by the house elf placement agency. I mean, realistically I can't keep that entire house maintained on my own, and Hermione's always talking about encouraging mutually beneficial relationships between house elves and home owners, so I thought...why not, I could give one a good place in return for a bit of help. And Merlin, Ron, the place was AWFUL. The guy started talking about _breeding programs_ that I could involve any house elf of 'appropriate pedigree' that I bought in, and that he'd sell an old one for half price and...it was bad. He treated them like they were farm animals."   
  
"So what did you do?"  
  
"I bought this little one named Pella that he was talking about who would be 'ready for the program' soon to spare her that awful fate, and then had the guy sell me his 'worst' house elf that was unsellable. He's this grumpy old fellow named Yobbie. I immediately freed them both of course, and said if they wanted to they could come and live with me but they weren't obligated to it. I need to talk to Hermione about it and see if she has any advice or books or recommendations or anything, but they both came back with me."   
  
"Where'd you even get the idea to _get_ house elves, Harry?" Ron questioned. "I mean, it's a good idea, actually, considering how big the house is, but I thought your mum was against the practice."  
  
"Well I'm against the practice too, admittedly," said Harry, "but like Hermione says it's supposed to be a symboitic thing. I'm gonna do my best with it. And besides. I had plenty of space for it, each of them have their own room. And weirdly enough, it was actually Riddle's ghost that suggested it."  
  
"Wait, you're on speaking terms with him now?"   
  
"I suppose so. He hasn't said much, but he came down when he realized I was moving my stuff in, said I was clearly unprepared and that I should get house elves to help keep the place up since I'd be going back to work soon." Come to think of it, Harry couldn't remember if he'd even mentioned going back to work soon in Riddle's presence. It was rather strange that he seemed to know about it anyway.   
  
"That's...surprisingly helpful," Ron observed.   
  
"I think he's starting to settle into the idea of me being there more so he's being a little more social," Harry suggested. "I mean, I don't really have any other explanation for it." 

"Well that's good news, isn't it?"   
  
"It is," Harry agreed. "I've got a bit more cleaning to do before I turn in for the evening, but let Hermione know I called, yeah?"   
  
"Sure thing," Ron agreed. "I'm sure she'll have all sorts of pamphlets and such to give you on proper house elf care. Night, Harry."  
  
"Night, Ron." Withdrawing his head from the fire, Harry scratched at the back of his neck. As much as he was looking forward to getting more work done, his back was starting to ache and he couldn't shake the gritty feeling of being covered in a thin layer of dust and grime from all the cleaning he'd done earlier. That claw-footed tub was calling his name. 

Trudging upstairs, Harry walked into his room only to find that Yobbie was in the middle of unpacking the remainder of his trunk for him and neatly organizing his books and other knickknacks on the two small bookshelves to either side of the fireplace. His clothes had been taken out from where he'd just tossed them all in, and were all folded neatly on the side of his bed, waiting to be placed into the large dresser adjacent to it. His old quidditch posters were all rolled up and, likewise, waiting to be hung, and Yobbiee had clearly gone and discovered a broom hanger in some other part of the house and transferred it instead into Harry's room, where he'd put both both Harry's more practical Nimbus and his Firebolt.   
  
"Woah."   
  
"Yobbie will wax the floors in this room tomorrow, so Mister Potter should be refraining from walking about in his shoes in here after then," Yobbie announced in a no-nonsense tone.   
  
"Wow, this is...a lot," Harry exclaimed, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Yobbie." The house elf gave a loud harrumph in response and then moved back to the bed, resuming packing Harry's clothing away in the dresser. "Are you sure you don't want to take some time to get settled in?"   
  
"I is quite settled, Mister Potter. Yobbie prefers to be busy. Idleness is the mark of a bad house elf."   
  
"If you say so," Harry said, not really sure what to make of the situation. "Should I come back later?"   
  
"I is almost done here for now."   
  
Not knowing what else to do, Harry moved to try and help with clearing out his trunk. Yobbie gave him a look that could have fried an egg with its ferocity at the attempt, and with great reluctance Harry settled into an old wooden chair that had been pulled up by the fireplace, which the house elf had also lit. It cast a warm glow over the room and deepened the rich burgundy color of the room's walls, making it feel surprisingly cozy despite having just been thrown together in only a few hours. Harry sighed and sank lower in the chair, stretching his feet out toward the fireplace. Soon enough, Yobbie had finished with unpacking his things--he left his old school supplies in the trunk at Harry's request--and left Harry alone to his own devices.   
  
Finally alone, Harry just sat for a moment in front of the fire and relaxed before taking off his shoes and dragging himself into the bathroom to run a bath. Soon enough the room was full of steam as the tub filled and Harry thanked whatever gods were listening that the plumbing systems were still working properly in such an old house. Dumping his clothes carelessly on the floor, Harry noted with a small smile that Yobbie had left all of his toilettries neatly packed away on the small shelf beside the kitchen sink, and his shampoo and soap was placed within easy reach of the tub. He settled in with a small groan, letting the heat sink into his skin as he submerged himself down to his neck and relaxed against the back of the bathtub, closing his eyes. Lying here like this was the most soothing thing Harry had experienced in the past several days, and the humidity of the room was making him sleepy.  
  
 _"You're going to fall asleep in there if you keep sitting like that."_

Harry yelped and jumped to cover himself, grabbing a small hand towel and dunking it into the water as he glared about the room and his eyes settled upon the spectral form occupying the seat in front of a small vanity table. Riddle looked different, somehow. His form was a bit clearer, less smoky and sharper around the edges. "What are you doing in here?!" Harry squawked, "I'm naked!"   
  
_"I can see that,"_ Riddle drawled. _"I assure you, there's very little of interest there."_

"If you wanted to talk couldn't you do it when I'm _not_ in the bath?" Harry demanded, clutching the small hand towel over himself.

_"I rather think you'd enjoy that less than our current state, considering your nudity."_

Harry spluttered."Okay, WHY are you here? Couldn't you...you know, wait in my room or something until I get out?"   
  
He could have sworn that Riddle rolled his eyes at him, but the ghost stood and left the room. Admittedly, Harry was surprised. He doubted Riddle ever did anything he didn't specifically wish to do, but he'd actually listened to him. Muttering angrily under his breath, Harry hurriedly washed his hair, scrubbed himself down, and dunked to rinse it off before stepping out and grabbing a towel. With more than a little alarm, Harry realized he _must_ have fallen asleep for a bit, because it appeared that Yobbie had popped in and taken his dirty clothes. Blushing beet red, Harry tightened the towel around himself and awkwardly made his way into his bedroom, where Riddle was waiting impatiently by the fire. Mercifully, Yobbie had left his housecoat out for him draped over the bed and Harry shrugged into it, hurriedly tying it around himself and decidedly ignoring the way Riddle's eyes lingered on his bare skin. It reminded him rather disturbingly of the time he'd snuck into the Prefects baths at Hogwarts and had a rather unfortunate run-in with Moaning Myrtle, though at least Riddle wasn't giggling about it.  
  
"What did you want?" Harry questioned, tightening the tie on his robe surreptitiously. 

_"I see that you took my advice about the house elves."_

"I did," Harry agreed. "Somewhat. They're here of their own free will and I don't know how you were about your own house elves in your time, but I expect that you'll treat them as respectfully as I treat you."   
  
Riddle quirked a single dark eyebrow, unimpressed. _"You freed them."  
  
_ "Yes."   
  
_"That was foolish of you."_

"I don't think I agree with you on that."   
  
_"They will never keep your secrets for you."_

"Well then it's a good thing that I don't really have any secrets I need to keep from them, isn't it?" Harry retorted, dropping into the seat opposite Riddle and dragging a comb through his messy hair. 

_"And what about my secrets?"_

"You seem to do a pretty good job of keeping whatever secrets you want to to yourself, considering _I_ know next to nothing about you, and trust me, I looked." 

_"If you were looking for answers then you were almost certainly looking in the wrong places."_

"You almost make it sound like you don't _want_ me to find out about you."

 _"It is inevitable, I suppose, but I rather think you enjoy the challenge,"_ Riddle observed, lips curling up into a rather nasty smirk. 

"You're horrid." 

_"But I'm growing on you."_

Harry scoffed. Admittedly, though, Riddle wasn't wrong. Harry hadn't ever really actively hated his presence here, and though their encounters had been few and far between, Riddle had never been outright nasty to Harry and though there was a lot that he didn't understand, he had a feeling they were both moving toward some kind of middle ground. "Like a leech."

Riddle chuckled, low and deep. 

"You look...better," Harry observed, looking Riddle up and down. "More defined."   
  
_"Having living souls inside this place is invigorating for me,"_ Riddle said simply. _"I have been alone for a long time and this house has been too empty and far too quiet for my liking."_

"Most ghosts aren't like that," Harry noted. 

_"Really, Harry, I thought you'd gathered by now that I'm not quite like most ghosts."_

Harry leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. "Why is that?" he questioned. 

_"I would suppose it relates to the circumstances of my death."_ He waited for Riddle to elaborate, but no further response was forthcoming from him. 

"Which you don't like to talk about, judging by your silence." 

_"Not particularly. It isn't a pleasant recollection."_ Riddle's expression was distant and rather troubled, and Harry could tell he'd momentarily lost his attention in favor of his own memories. 

"Did someone kill you?" Harry questioned, unable to stop himself. The thought of Riddle's nearly-empty cold case file floated in the back of his mind.

Riddle unclipped the top few buttons of his over-robe, pulling it aside. Gouts of slippery liquid ran from numerous stab wounds all across his chest, dying his white shirt and vest a deep vermillion. _"They were rather thorough about it,"_ Riddle remarked. 

"Merlin," Harry whispered. "You're still bleeding," he realized, watching as the red dripped from Riddle's front and dissipated into ash before his eyes.  
  
 _"As I said, I am not a normal ghost."_

"Why ash?" Harry questioned. 

_"The blade wasn't what killed me. You won't be finding a body, it's been scattered to the wind."_

Harry fell silent, staring morosely at the fire. "I'm sorry to bring up traumatic memories." 

_"You are an Auror. It is your job to ask questions, and it would have come up sooner rather than later. Better to get it over with."_ They both lapsed into a heavy silence, which Riddle eventually broke. _"Tell the house elves not to go into the locked rooms."_

"What's in there?" 

_"Things that are not for you, nor them, to be looking through. Now if you will excuse me, I would rather like to be alone for a time."_ Riddle nodded politely to him, and swept out the door with a swirl of his robes behind him, leaving Harry to his own devices. 

He felt like, much as he tried, he could never know what to expect from Riddle. One day he was aloof, another terrifying and furious, and another he actively sought out conversation and offered helpful suggestions. One thing was for certain, though, Riddle didn't seem to feel any urgency in a resolution being found in regards to his own death. Staring at the old logs before him as they crackled in the fireplace, Harry wondered if Tom Riddle would ever really show him who he really was, or if he'd always be so guarded. It made little sense to him why a ghost wouldn't want their killer to be known immediately, but he wasn't about to press the matter. After all when you were dead, he supposed, you had all the time in the world. 

* * *


	8. The Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Listening for this chapter: Gnossienne No. 4: 4ieme Gnossienne. Lent, by Erik Satie

"Is Harry Potter going to be using any of these dried beetle carapaces?" Pella questioned, holding up a bottle at table-height as Harry glanced up from the home charms book he'd been flipping through.   
  
"Uh, I don't think so, Pella. Half the ingredients in the potions room are probably long-past their use by date."   
  
"So is Harry Potter planning on throwing these away?" she questioned carefully, peering over the table edge with big, soulful eyes.   
  
"I was planning on it, yeah," Harry said, holding back a smile. "Do you want them? They'd just be garbage otherwise."  
  
"Pella will make something pretty with the shiny beetle shells," the house elf announced gleefully, and flounced out of the room.  
  
Harry grinned to himself. It had been a pleasant discovery to find that generally, house elves subsisted solely by claiming things that were considered trash to most wix. Hermione had explained it a bit more carefully a couple of days past when he'd dropped by the ministry to talk to her, but 'accepting gifts' was highly frowned upon by house elves. They prided themselves on self sufficiency and their ability to repurpose old, discarded things to better use. It was turning out that the house was like a gold mine for the little creatures; there were so many things that Harry was planning on getting rid of or replacing as he and the house elves had begun going through each room in earnest that there were plenty of used and discarded items for Yobbie and Pella to pick through. Pella had taken to finding things that she liked and bringing them up to Harry to ask if they were going to be thrown out, and Harry had easily fallen into the habit of saying that yes, he was probably going to toss them, so that Pella felt comfortable claiming the item for whatever purpose she wished for herself. Yobbie was far more reserved in picking through any discarded items and seemed a bit exasperated with Pella's enthusiasm for it when all was said, but he seemed to be settling in well enough.   
  
It had been surprisingly easy to fall into a routine with the two of them, waking up at a decent hour. Pella took to the kitchens with gusto and had re-cleaned them from top to bottom, scrubbing everything down by hand and washing each individual dish, pot, and pan she'd found, and there seemed to almost always be something delicious-smelling cooking in there any time he wandered by. After inquiring as to what schedule Harry liked to keep, she began waking him promptly in the morning with a rap on his door inviting him down to breakfast. He'd spend the morning poring over books of spells, taking notes of different things that needed to be cleaned, repaired, or replaced, and at his invitation the little house elf would drop a few books onto the bench of a chair and sit at the table with him, listening avidly and piping up with suggestions for assistance here and there. Pella seemed to have made it her mission to dust every inch of the house down from top to bottom while Yobbie helped Harry categorize and discard anything that needed replacing. They'd taken down all of the curtains on the first floor windows and Harry had gone and purchased numerous bags of sand to transfigure into replacement window panes for some of the cracked or broken bits. Between dusting, Harry would often find Pella seated on the floor in the parlor with piles of cloth around her, hacking up the old, ratty curtains with a pair of scissors to make rags, dishcloths, and neatly setting aside and folding bits of salvageable cloth for patching or to save for other projects.   
  
Yobbie had fallen headfirst into the task of tending to the manor grounds, hacking away at a dormant invasive magical vine that had climbed up one side of the atrium with an old blade he found in the tool shed, picking out scattered stones from the frozen garden beds and cleaning up broken glass and bits of garbage on the overgrown lawn, raking leaves and gathering a pile of damaged wood pieces that were to be burned out back, just off the cliff edge.   
  
Harry hadn't caught sight of Tom amid all of this intensive work, though Yobbie said he'd seen the ghost watching him from the upper floor windows as he worked to build a bonfire outside from any broken furniture and other bits of discarded wood they'd found. He'd occasionally hear music playing from the drawing room--it seemed there were a variety of records up there that Riddle cycled through now and then, but for the most part it seemed that the specter was avoiding being anywhere near the heart of all the activity. Harry was almost a bit relieved for that considering how terrified Pella had been of him, but at the same time he found himself wishing that Riddle would make himself more known if only to give Harry a bit more company when the elves were busy. They'd all begun cleaning the house as quickly and efficiently as they could manage, as the date of Harry's return to work (and probably the date of a future confrontation with his father at the ministry) was fast approaching. Still, Harry felt Riddle's absence amid all the activity and wondered if he'd get another chance to speak to him about what had happened.  
  
Taking this into consideration, it was quite startling to both Harry and Yobbie when they were in the middle of hacking through the overgrowth of trees that had blocked the path up to the property from all connection with Canesworth down below, and Riddle appeared standing just past the broken gate at the edge of the estate, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he observed their struggling.   
  
_"A good decomposition spell would deal with the stumps and roots to make clearing that a lot quicker,"_ Tom observed, neatly picking his way across the fallen saplings they'd managed to clear out so far.  
  
"That's a good idea," Harry agreed, slashing his wand down sharply and biting deep into a tree with a cutting hex. Yobbie watched Riddle warily from the corner of his eye but proceeded in kind, hacking away at another tree one-handed with an old axe he'd found. He was surprised, really. This was the furthest he'd ever seen Riddle get from the house. It made him wonder at whether he really had any direct attachment to the place or if he could leave as he wished.  
  
_"You're never going to get anywhere in a decent amount of time if you're being so overly careful about it,"_ Riddle noted.  
  
"Well what do you suggest then?" Harry asked, lowering his wand momentarily and turning to face the specter.

_"Let me show you a spell."_

"Sorry, what?" 

_"Let me show you a spell,"_ Riddle repeated slowly as if speaking to an inattentive child. 

"But you're dead," Harry said pointedly, staring at him.

 _"Do you trust me, Harry?"_ Riddle asked, his voice soft and sibilant. He looked at Harry expectantly. _"Please, allow me. I merely wish to help."_

This was definitely, _definitely_ not a good idea. And no, Harry couldn't say that he _did_ trust Riddle in the least, but as wary as he was, half of him burned with curiosity. Steeling himself, Harry nodded. "Alright. Yobbie, stand back." 

"This is not being a good idea, Mister Potter," Yobbie warned even as he obeyed. 

Riddle stepped up behind him and curled an arm around his waist, reaching out a long-fingered hand and gently clasping it around Harry's. His touch still felt almost burning-hot and Harry had to fight not to rip himself away. There was a bit of resistance to Riddle's grip when Harry moved a bit in surprise before his hand passed through Tom's. _"Don't move so suddenly, let me guide you, or I won't be able to do it."_

Harry took a deep breath, slowly forcing himself to relax. Riddle smiled, tightening his grip around Harry's hand and guiding his wand to be raised before him. Harry heard a sharp intake of air just past his ear as Riddle's hand suddenly became very startlingly solid and he steered Harry's wand upward, to the left, and then sharply snapped his wand hand to the right and forward. _"Focus, Harry,"_ Tom whispered in his ear, _"You want to clear a path in the exact direction of the old one. Envision it, BELIEVE it, and it will happen. Repeat the movements after me. The spell is 'Prosterno Rectus'."_

" _Prosterno Rectus_ ," Harry intoned as Riddle guided his wand in a cutting motion, drawing his arm back and snapping his hand forward as if to pitch a baseball. He felt a prickle of something building inside of him as he went through the motions, but the moment he said the spell something _pulled_ sharply and he felt like he was filled to the brim with raw power to the point where it would burst through his very skin and rip him to pieces if he didn't let it go. Just as Riddle lead his wand to let fly there was a loud crackling sound as the magic burst forth in a straight line and _flattened_ a lengthy swath of trees leading directly down the hillside toward the bottom.

In one fell swoop, Riddle had helped him clear almost half the length of the entire pathway down to the dirt road below.

"H...how did you..." Harry stuttered out.   
  
_"That was all you, Harry. You were the one to direct it to your bidding."  
  
_"But I felt..."

 _"The pull? That's what happens when you cast a powerful spell. It takes will, but it also takes control and drive to bend a spell like that to your desires. When it comes down to it, a_ _wand is a conduit that helps to guide the magic within you. It is a tool, nothing more. Magic in its purest form is directed solely by your will alone and that desire and intent is what fuels ANY spell you cast to succeed. You have so much potential, Harry...there is an incredible depth to your magic that could be applied to do great things, if you direct it with enough intent."_

Riddle's grip on his waist tightened momentarily, pulling him back against a surprisingly solid body and for just the barest second Harry's breath caught in his throat as he felt Riddle's lips brush softly just below his ear against the corner of his jaw. It was so small and subtle a movement that Harry could almost have sworn he imagined it, but the loss of the contact as Riddle stepped back and released him convinced him that no, it had been quite real. He turned to face the other wizard who met his gaze with bright, luminous eyes, and Riddle gave him a pleased smile that seemed to shift the structure of his face. Muscle pulled oddly in places it should not have been, stretching his lips wider than was natural to reveal sharpened teeth.  
  
Up close, Harry could see much more of Tom's features than he'd ever gotten a good look at. There was a strange, twisted sort of energy to the man before him that both interested and alarmed him. Riddle's form looked far more static and defined than he'd ever noticed, ever _felt_ before. The smoky miasma that had once obscured his body seemed to have lessened significantly and he could see beneath the little that remained that Riddle had once been a handsome man, but dark magic and whatever had happened in his passing had warped his physical features more than enough to unsettle anyone who ever got a good look at him. 

Shaking himself out of the slightly disturbing direction his thoughts had been going, Harry glanced back at the wreckage and then looked to Tom. "You're almost fully visible," he noted.

 _"A side effect of being exposed to such raw ambient magic,"_ Riddle dismissed. Harry didn't entirely believe him, but he was too caught up in his own shock to dwell on it. _"I suppose we should call that a rousing success. I very much look forward to seeing what else you are capable of when you put your mind to it,"_ Tom murmured, lips curling. _"I think I will leave you to the rest of your work. I look forward to seeing your progress in the coming days."_

Harry watched, frozen, as Riddle made his way up the lawn back to the house. It was only when Yobbie pulled at his sleeve insistently that he finally looked away. 

"I don't be trusting that one," Yobbie warned. "That is not a ghost." 

"I don't trust him either," Harry acknowledged. "Less so, really, the more that I find out about him." Looking to the wreckage of felled trees, Harry took a deep breath, centering himself. This wasn't something he could address immediately, and there was no sense panicking over unanswered questions at the moment. "Right then. Let's start clearing this up and getting rid of the roots and stumps. If all goes well, we should be able to look into laying some proper paving stones tomorrow once we've got most of it cleared up."  
  


* * *

  
"A ghost assisting a wizard in casting spells," Hermione said slowly, leaning back from her desk and staring openly at Harry. "And gaining 'ambient energy' from the casting, which lends him solidity. I've never heard such a thing in my life."

"He's strange," Harry sighed, spinning the chair before his best friend's office desk back and forth as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, pulling at a stray thread. "Really strange. The more I connect with him the less I know what to make of him. I don't know that he fits the category of a ghost, even a malevolent one, from the things you've told me. Yobbie seems convinced that he isn't a ghost at all and honestly, I still don't know what to make of it all."

"Admittedly, I think Yobbie might be right," Hermione murmured, tapping her quill lightly against the parchment before her. "No typical spirit has the ability to manifest to the degree you're describing, except perhaps a poltergeist. And the sheer amount of power it takes for a ghost to manifest any kind of physicality is usually extremely limited and temporary in nature, but the way you've been describing it it's almost like there's a progression to it with the more time that you're spending in the house. I'd suggest that he may be some kind of wraith at this point, but he hasn't shown any signs of active malevolence beyond that minor altercation you told me about." 

"I went to Mungo's and got a full check-up for any kind of draining or dark influence. They couldn't find any evidence of any significant magical drain on my core, no signs of fatigue or deterioration of any kind. If anything, I'm in pretty good health. I dropped by Grimmauld and talked to Remus about it earlier today after I got out, but he'd never heard of anything remotely like it. The best he could suggest was that Riddle is some kind of new class of spirit that hasn't been previously recorded. He also warned that this might be some kind of creature operating under the guise of pretending to be the previous owner, but I don't really have enough information about Riddle to begin with to really tell if that may be the case. I mean if he is some kind of wraith, do you think the house elves are safe living there with him?" 

"There's been no signs that he's causing damage to any of you so far, so I'd say it's a risk but not a terribly pressing one at this time. Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Maybe talk to Pella and Yobbie and have them report any and all movements that Riddle makes in the house that they can observe back to you. They could be great allies in helping to figure out what he's doing and why, but if there's any risk of harm to them I'd direct them to immediately remove themselves. You said that Yobbie had no problem apparating in the house, didn't you?" Harry nodded. "I'm fairly certain that whatever restricted wizards from accessing the property before is directly linked to Riddle, but it seems to only apply to wizards. The more I think about it though, it may be less about them being wizards and more about potentially blocking out anyone who might have ill intent or a negative impact on Riddle. I mean, think about it. You were the first wizard to be able to access the house in decades. Those that tried before you often found themselves redirected and wandering away from the property, and the only ones who were able to actually access it were his closest friends at the time--people who wouldn't have meant him any kind of ill will. Mr. Malfoy still couldn't access the property after its rediscovery, but you have always been able to."

"That makes a lot of sense," Harry agreed. "But _why,_ though? What does he have that is worth such intense protection as completely cutting the house off like that? It seems like he _gains_ strength from there being a wizarding presence in the house, you'd think he'd want there to be more traffic."

"I think maybe it's not about the quantity of people who are there, and more about it being someone who's compatible," Hermione said thoughtfully. "You specifically were the only wizard even able to see the house. You alone were able to set foot on the grounds without impediment. Perhaps you might even be able to apparate on the property, though I wouldn't think it wise to test it." She leaned back in her chair, brushing a strand of frizzy hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. "Something that stands out to me though, is that both Crick and a goblin notary confirmed that the signature and writing on the deed had belonged to Tom Riddle. I think that taking that into account, there's a good chance that this being was once Tom Riddle. Whatever happened to him changed him into what he's become now." 

"So basically it boils down to 'the information we have is so limited we can't make any solid conjectures,' am I right?" Harry sighed, scratching the back of his neck. 

"Ultimately, yes. I think that it's more important than ever, really, that you find out who Tom Riddle was. Treat this as you would a case you're pursuing; speak to any surviving wix who knew him when he was alive. Look up any records you can find where he might even be mentioned in passing. If he was as good at covering his tracks as he appears to have been considering how sparse ministry records are on him, I'd suggest going through his home office if you have access. Someone who's as intense of a practitioner as he was in life was bound to have made a few memorable ripples in his time. Perhaps touch base with Lucius Malfoy again, I'm sure there were things he wasn't telling you when you purchased the house. I want you to take notes of any further interactions you have with Riddle--when it comes to categorizing potentially new types of creatures, clear and detailed records are key! Really this is all very exciting, especially if he's a being rather than a spirit. Beings that were once human are rare anomalies, aside from vampires and werewolves. I would like to drop by your house again soon and see if I can't gather any information out of interacting with him myself." 

Harry left the ministry with several pamphlets on house elf care and cohabitation, a promise to have Hermione and Ron over to visit soon, and a growing sense of dread. There were so many things in his life that were up in the air at the moment that much as he should be, Riddle wasn't even at the top of the list. Harry almost stopped by the DMLE to see about picking up some extra work to do from home, but with the argument with his father at the forefront of his thoughts he decided to refrain. He'd face him when he had to when he came back to work. 

Returning home, Harry found that Yobbie had begun the task of clearing the fallen brush and trees from the pathway that he and Riddle had created and had started breaking down the bigger trees into firewood. The gruff old house elf nodded to him politely as he passed by and resumed the task of chopping wood, hefting his axe one-handed and bringing it cracking down onto the felled tree before him. "Best be getting inside, Mister Potter," Yobbie warned, "looks like there's a storm about to break."   
  
"A storm on All Hallow's Eve," Harry hummed, looking out over the cliffs past the house to the roiling clouds hanging above the ocean. "Fitting." It was at that moment that Harry realized he wasn't alone. Riddle was out on the back porch with his hands neatly clasped behind him as he looked out at the oncoming storm, the wind whipping his robes back tight against his body, the smoky miasma that usually hung about him whisked away by the breeze. His eyes were wide and bright as he looked past the cliff edge to the oncoming clouds and the large, foaming white-capped waves whipped up by the wind.  
  
Rather than approaching him Harry went inside and hung up his coat by the door, kicking off his shoes. At this point the downstairs was almost entirely cleaned and organized and all that they were waiting on was the parlor furniture to be returned from the reupholstery shop. Yobbie and Pella had collectively made short work of any remaining dust and grime with Harry offering direction and picking up whatever tasks the elves hadn't gotten to yet, though they tried to shoo him off. He was pretty sure the house would be in proper working condition by the time he was back to work, though they had yet to clean the workrooms on the second floor and the various locked rooms around the house remained untouched.   
  
Harry found Pella sitting cheerfully on the floor of the parlor before the fireplace, a few pieces of old curtain fabric spread around her with a pair of scissors at her side, carefully sewing together what looked to be like a new dress for herself. Beside her was a bit of salvaged lace trim from one of the old curtains and a bowl of the shiny beetle carapaces she'd been so interested in earlier on. She shot up at the sight of him, hurriedly setting aside her work and rushing over.   
  
"Is there anything Pella can do for Mister Harry Potter?"   
  
"You could tell me what you're working on," he suggested, "it looks really involved." 

"Oh...Pella is just using some of the old curtains to make something to wear so they don't go to waste. I is not the most experienced at sewing but I is learning! Maybe Pella will be able to make new curtains to replace the old ones, if I is getting good enough!"   
  
"That sounds like a great idea, Pella!" Harry enthused, thinking that perhaps he'd find a book or two about sewing techniques for the elf. She really seemed to be taking well to her newfound freedom. Yobbie on the other hand seemed to treat it as if nothing had changed, as he didn't allow himself such idleness to attend to his own tasks and busied himself with the upkeep of the manor. Thunder rumbled distantly, and both Pella and Harry paused to listen. "It sounds like it will be a fierce one," Pella observed.   
  
"I should make sure the window shutters are closed upstairs," Harry murmured.

With that thought, he stood fully and made his way upstairs, going room to room to any of those that had shutters to protect them and spelling them shut with a few flicks of his wand. As he was moving along on the third floor however, he noticed that the room next to his bedroom--one that was normally locked--sat with the door ajar. Tentatively, Harry approached and when there was no resistance to pushing the door open, he slipped inside. Dim light filtered through tall shutters across the room, giving the bare impression of furniture and other items here and there.   
  
" _Lumos_ ," Harry whispered. He didn't know why he felt like it called for whispering; there was something about the room that seemed to soak up all sense of sound and stimuli like a strange, unmoving void. His wandlight illuminated surprisingly spartan furniture. A tall wardrobe stood in one corner, a large bed jutting out from one wall, shrouded by heavy curtains that had been tied back to the posts. A dark-patterned chaise lounge was placed at an angle from an old fireplace, its mantle the only ornate thing in the room, bearing heavy serpentine decoration that echoed many of the other built-in pieces around the manor. The room was spacious, the empty areas filled with old rugs and draperies. Above the mantle was a dusty painting of rolling fields of grain, their golden tresses darkened by overlaying storm clouds that seemed to mirror the weather outside.   
  
"The master bedroom," Harry murmured aloud. The sound of his words seemed to be swallowed into the dusty silence around him. _Tom's room,_ he thought distantly. It seemed oddly utilitarian--he would have expected there to be more drama and personality to Tom's bedroom, but he supposed that the practicality of the room in itself told him that Tom was a very no-nonsense person when it came to meeting his own needs. If there was one notable thing to observe about the place, it was clearly that Tom very much liked to read. The wall taken up by the grand fireplace was taken up with mirroring bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling and had been carefully packed with numerous books. Two enormous shelves stood prominently to either side of the fireplace, one of them extending to curve around the wall of the room. A few other little things had been neatly arranged between the books on the shelves--a small bowl full of seashells likely collected from the beach below the cliffs, an old locket in a glass-faced wooden display box, a small carved stone figurine that seemed to shift shapes the longer Harry looked at it, and other little odds and ends that had clearly been of some meaning to Tom. What drew his eye most of all though was an old sepia-toned photograph, carefully framed and placed in a prominent, central location on the shelving, just at eye level.   
  
Carefully, Harry reached up and took the frame from its place on the bookshelf to scrutinize it more closely. Tom stood proudly in the photograph, dressed in a snappy pinstriped suit with a decidedly wizarding cut to it beside a bright-eyed blond who stood just above shoulder height with an arm loosely wrapped around his waist. A small table beside them held a bottle of wine. Behind them out a tall window, rows and rows of grape vines stretched. As he watched, Riddle clinked a wineglass together with one the other man held, and they both drank, Riddle looking very pleased as the man pulled him a bit tighter against his side. With great delicacy Harry turned the frame over and removed the backing, searching for any clues as to the identity of the other man. His search was rewarded when he found a careful notation in the bottom right corner of the photograph's back side that read, _Grand Reopening of Superior Red Vineyard, Alsace, France 1953._ If Harry remembered correctly--he wasn't much of a wine drinker--he was fairly certain Superior Red was the brand owned by the Malfoy family, which meant that there was a very good chance that the man in the photo would have been Abraxas Malfoy, who Tom had left the house to in his passing. Judging from the photograph and how it had been displayed, the two of them had been very close.   
  
Harry replaced the backing on the frame and set the photograph back in its place of honor, moving on to look around the room for any other clues about the man he currently shared his home with. Thunder rumbled outside, a reminder of why he'd come up here in the first place, but Harry was far too consumed in picking through the room to notice either that or the shadowy figure that occupied the door, watching him.   
  
_"How did you get in here?"_ Tom's voice startled Harry to the point that he nearly ripped the drawer of his bedside table out, narrowly avoiding dumping its contents on the floor as he whirled around.   
  
"I--the door was open," Harry fumbled out.   
  
_"So you decided it was a perfect opportunity to pick through my personal belongings in my private quarters?"_ Riddle growled.

"Can you blame me for wanting to know more about you?" Harry asked, straightening up and fighting the urge to let his wand drop into his palm from its holster. Riddle wasn't any danger to him, not at the moment--not that Harry knew if there was much one could do to fight off a ghost, as it was. The fact that he was this wary of Tom should probably be taken as a sign, he thought, but Harry was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt at least until proven otherwise. "You're fairly tight-lipped most of the time." 

_"These rooms remain locked for good reason,"_ Riddle hissed. 

"Then you'll have to forgive me for thinking the open door to be an invitation," Harry retorted. "If you're going to throw up so much of a stink about it, move aside and I'll leave." 

_"You didn't take anything."_

"No, I've barely touched your things," Harry assured, surprised at the accusation in Tom's voice. "I know we don't tend to interact much, but I wouldn't take something that you wanted kept private." The barely-noticeable way that Riddle's shoulders relaxed just a fraction at that made Harry wonder what was so important in this room for Riddle to be so defensive. "Are you sure you don't want this room cleaned up a bit too? The house elves could make short work of the dust--"   
  
_"NO one is to come in here,"_ Riddle interrupted sharply.   
  
"Alright, alright," Harry appeased, raising his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'll leave, then." Carefully, he inched his way around the bed towards the door. Riddle stepped aside just enough to let him pass, then slammed the door shut behind him. "Merlin, he's tetchy," Harry muttered. Shrugging it off, he went about from room to room and closed the shutters until the house was tightly locked up and prepared for the incoming inclement weather.   
  
Feeling a bit lazy and wanting to wind down for the night after a long day, Harry went back to his room to change into his pajamas and threw on a loose bathrobe and slippers, wandering down to the kitchen to fix himself a late evening snack. The thunder was getting louder, the pauses between rumblings growing shorter and fewer between as the storm approached. Rain was beginning to pelt the windows, and the shutters rattled in the heavy wind as it swept over the coastline. The house seemed to rock and hum with pent up energy as the storm broke upon the cliffside, roiling and furious.   
  
That tension only seemed to build with the passage of time as Harry munched on biscuits and waited for the kettle to boil. Harry found himself listening to the crack of lightning and thunder booming in quick succession overhead as he watched water seep down the kitchen window. He would be returning to work, tomorrow. Judging by the rather slanderous article in the paper and his father's ire, he didn't know how warm of a welcome he'd be receiving as he resumed his usual study of old case files and abandoned missing persons reports and tried to pretend that he felt like what he was doing was worthwhile.   
  
The kettle's steam hissing out in a loud, screaming whistle startled him from his darkening thoughts and he hurriedly took it off the burner and set his tea to steeping. Feeling frustratingly restless, he wandered out into the parlor only to find that of the last two remaining chairs that hadn't needed reupholstering, one was occupied. Riddle sat slouched down in the old leather wingback, staring into the fire as if it held all the world's secrets, long fingers tapping a slow, delicate beat on the arm of the chair.   
  
Harry had never really spent time casually in Riddle's presence. He tended to sweep in and out at inopportune moments to make an observation or give a bit of advice and then glide off to go brood by himself in some other part of the house...or at least that's what Harry assumed he was doing, he really had no idea how Riddle spent his time. He wondered if the ghost didn't get horribly bored of everything after so many years on his own, for him to seek out solitude the grand majority of the time. As it was, Harry wasn't sure that Riddle would welcome his presence after their little run-in in the master bedroom--

_"Are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to take a seat?"_

Well, that decided that for him. He'd look silly if he walked away after standing there for so long, so Harry approached and tentatively settled into the seat opposite Riddle by the fire, blowing on his tea lightly before taking a sip. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the echo of thunder beyond the pattering of rain outside. It was Harry who cracked first. "I really didn't take anything from your room, you know." 

_"I know. I would have realized if you'd left with anything out of place."_

That was a bit ominous, but Harry blew past the tension and said, "You must've been very close with Abraxas Malfoy, to have his picture displayed like that."

 _"We went to school together,"_ Tom supplied. _"We were well acquainted for many years."_

"And you left the house to him," Harry added. "It's always made me wonder, though. His son Lucius said he couldn't get onto the property."   
  
A sharp cackle tore from Riddle's throat and he leaned his head back in his seat. _"Is that what he said, now?"_

"Is that...not what happened?" 

_"He found the house well enough. Slogged up through the trees complaining the whole way, but when he caught the barest glimpse of me from afar he fled like the coward he is."_

"That's surprising," Harry admitted, wrapping his hands around his hot cup and letting the warmth seep into his skin. "Then again, it did strike me as odd how quickly he was willing to sell the house to me."

 _"Fear can be a very powerful motivator,"_ Riddle drawled. _"Would you have bought the house yourself, had you seen me as I am now?"_

"As you are now?" Harry looked him over thoughtfully. "You look different now than you did when I first came to own this place." 

_"But still, would you not have at the very least hesitated?"_

"Probably," Harry admitted. "But I _really_ wanted this place." 

_"You seem almost as attached to this house as I am,"_ Tom observed with no small amount of amusement. 

"ARE you attached to the house?" Harry questioned, curious.

 _"Very much so. It was mine, after all,"_ he answered with a small, secretive smile. _"Wizarding houses, after a time, come to possess their own energy. One could almost say they are alive in a sense."_

"And you need that," Harry surmised. "Is it a matter of survival?" 

_"Let us say that I am a very nostalgic person, like most ghosts are,"_ Riddle suggested. _"This place holds many memories of my life, and it has come to be a part of me."_

"You're dancing around the question, which tells me this is probably more important than you want to let on," Harry observed.

_"You are too quick-witted for your own good, Potter."_

"I'm told that's part of what makes me a good Auror," Harry said pleasantly, ignoring Tom's ire. Riddle let out a hum of agreement and settled back into his seat. 

_"Yet you seem reluctant about your coming return to work. You're going back soon, correct?"_

"Yeah, tomorrow actually." Harry stared down at his cup. "It's not really all that bad. I'm working in cold cases right now but it's not what I really expected to be doing as an Auror."

 _"Were you more interested in getting out there and taking down dark wizards and the like?"_ Riddle questioned, a flicker of amusement showing in the twist of his lips. 

"Well not exactly, no, I wasn't really looking for excitement, I just wanted to help people, you know? But I feel like I'm not really doing that here." 

_"You've been working as an auror for several years, haven't you? Why the change to cold cases?"_ Harry fell silent, glancing away at the fire. _"I doubt you'd still be in your current position were this a change that happened some years ago...or was it a demotion?"_ At the way Harry hunched in on himself a bit at the word 'demotion,' Tom smirked. _"Ah, a demotion. You did something that led to you falling out of favor."_

"If it's all the same to you I'd rather not discuss this, actually." 

_"Oh but I'm so VERY curious now,"_ Riddle hummed. _"What could you possibly have done that would have led to a demotion? Were you involved in some kind of embezzlement? Taking payments to avoid arrest from criminals? Flouting the law yourself? Or did you screw up something important? Was someone injured, even killed, perhaps--"  
_

"Alright that's enough," Harry interrupted sharply, standing up from his chair. 

_"Someone died, then,"_ he continued on as if he hadn't heard Harry. _"Unfortunate, that. Another auror? A client?"_

"ENOUGH!" Harry snapped. Riddle fell silent, but there was an easy smile on his face as he leaned back in his seat. "You're just enjoying tormenting me at this point, aren't you!" 

_"Admittedly, you are very easy to torment."_

Harry shot a hard glare in Riddle's direction. "You aren't doing yourself any favors you know, by pushing me like that. And it's obvious why you're doing it. You don't like talking about yourself to begin with, let alone talking about anything that might help your case. Attacking me to distract from talking about yourself isn't going to stop me from looking for answers." he said stubbornly.

 _"I'm far more interested in learning about you than I am in talking about myself,"_ Riddle excused, but Harry was sure he'd hit the nail on it's head. 

"What is so desperately important that you need to hide so much about yourself?"

_"Not everyone is as much of an open book as you are, Harry."_

"And typically when someone refuses to talk about themselves to the extent that you do, they've got something to hide."

_"As do you, Harry. If you continue to pry into my background I can't promise you that I won't return the gesture in kind."_

"That's not that much of a threat." 

_"Considering how defensive you just became about your current position as an auror, I beg to disagree. But no matter, you'll give up your secrets eventually far more easily than I."_

"You really have quite the ego, don't you?"

 _"Humbleness and humility don't look particularly flattering on me,"_ Riddle drawled. " _But no, that suggests that I am exaggerating on my own abilities. It's not bragging if it's a simple fact. Everyone bends in the end."_

"Shouldn't you be more careful to stay on my good side, considering keeping this place in good condition is dependent on keeping it inhabited?"

_"I don't think I need to worry about that at this point. This place has already sunk its teeth into you; you just haven't quite felt the sting of its bite enough to realize it yet."_

Harry shrugged off the unease inspired by Riddle's words, grabbing a poker and adjusting the logs in the fireplace. He belonged here and this house had practically welcomed him with open arms...but even with all the work he had put into making it halfway habitable, he still felt like he didn't quite have the right to call it 'his'. Was he really the master of this place? Or was he just a passing guest? He didn't feel like he had control in this place just yet...not that he necessarily ever would. Riddle was right; a wizarding house was a living thing in many ways; there was a sentience to this place that would probably make a lesser person uneasy with how it seemed to anticipate his needs and adjust to them, but Harry was quickly becoming used to it. The way the house itself seemed to shift and change here and there in small ways to accommodate him was subtle at the best of times, but it hadn't escaped his notice how the lights would flicker on as he walked into a room, or how his bedroom curtains would drift shut against the morning sunlight if he'd pulled a late night to let him lie in a bit longer.   
  
He barely noticed that Riddle had risen from his seat as he stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts, until Tom reached out and ran his fingers delicately over the carved scales of the wooden snake that curled about the fireplace mantle. _"Perhaps I should sink my teeth into you as well,"_ he hummed. _"You have so much to offer despite yourself, after all."_

"I don't know that I want to know the answer to what you mean by that," Harry responded, "but the way you phrase that doesn't promise anything good." 

_"Oh, I wouldn't do you any permanent harm,"_ Riddle dismissed with a huff of amusement as he turned and fastened his gaze on Harry. _"But I must admit that there's an appeal in finding out just what you can do with that power of yours. You have a gift, after all, it would be remiss not to see you reach your full potential."_

"No thanks, I think I'll take a hard pass." Harry declined, returning the fire poker to its stand. "I'm not that ambitious; I'm quite fine the way I am."

_"More's the pity, if that's true. You have so much possibility, should you take the right path."_

"I don't know that what you'd consider to be the 'right' path would match up with what I would, considering that you were a _particularly_ dark wizard by all accounts." 

_"When it comes down to it, 'dark' and 'light' are very arbitrary terms that humanity assigns on an uneven basis. At the core of us all there is only power. You would do well to remember that when dealing with the 'dark' underbelly of the wizarding world, as an Auror."_

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind," Harry said through a badly-suppressed yawn.

 _"I sense it is time for you to retire for the evening. You do have work early tomorrow, after all,"_ Riddle observed with a hint of amusement. 

Harry grimaced. "Yeah. I probably should try and sleep." He paused, halfway turned to head back to the kitchen to deposit his tea mug in the sink only to find that it was already gone--Pella or Yobbie must have taken care of it when he wasn't paying attention. Shrugging to himself, Harry gave a sardonic smile to Tom. "It was...nice. Chatting like this. I hope this isn't the last time we talk like this."

_"I am sure it will not be. There is plenty of time ahead, after all."_

Harry's smile widened at that. Progress. He was making slight but steady progress in getting Riddle to open up and interact more. "Goodnight, Tom." 

Riddle nodded politely. As Harry left the room he could have sworn he heard a soft, almost forboding voice murmur, "Pleasant dreams, Harry," from behind him. 


	9. A Night to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Listening: Lucy's Party by Wojciech Kilar

The distant sound of music met Harry's ears as his eyes flickered open. Stretching lazily and giving a loud yawn he rose from his bed, scratching sleepily as he tuned in to the noise around him. He could hear distant laughter and the chatter of many voices coming from down below. The windows were still dark, indicating it was still late at night, but the house thrummed with energy. Confused, he shrugged into his housecoat and cracked the door to the hall outside open. The third floor was deserted, but the sounds of music and people floated up from the lower parts of the house. As he made his way down the hall and down the stairwell, he looked down and saw people passing by below on the first floor, dressed in all sorts of wizarding finery. The noise hit him as he made it to the first floor and found himself standing there in his pajamas in the middle of a party. The stairwell and walls were decorated with garlands dotted with dried berries and little miniature jack-o-lanterns, and fresh pine boughs along the walls and over door frames were hung with enchanted chirping bats and a few handcrafted wooden decorations in the shape of old runes that Harry didn't quite recognize.

A woman rushed by in a red dress, curls bouncing as she clasped the hand of a handsome wizard and called out, "Come on, we can't be late!" Without another thought Harry followed after the pair and found himself hurrying through a set of double doors out into the atrium. The room had been cleared of old potted plants and cast iron furniture and the tiled floors scrubbed until they shone. The ceiling was strung with hanging fairy lights. A few house elves flickered about between guests bearing platters of thematic hors d'Oeuvres and pouring glasses of mulled wine. Guests milled about, filling the room with noise over the live music being played from a stage set up on the far side. Couples filled the open dance floor, laughing and twirling about in time to the music. Some people were playing games, and Harry saw some wizards along the edge of the party setting off the occasional indoor firework to burst above the heads of the attendants, who would shout and gasp in wonderment.  
  
Harry had never felt more overwhelmed by a party in his life. The ministry holiday balls paled in comparison. He found a wineglass pressed into his hand by an elf who looked him up and down disapprovingly and then moved on, and Harry was suddenly very much aware that amidst all this finery, he was standing there in his pajamas. Then again, as he looked at the outfits of the wix around him, he supposed that he didn't stand out quite that much. Some of them were dressed in their best finery, but others wore muted black robes and ornate iron masks in the shape of skulls, scattered throughout the crowd. One wizard was wearing a beaded front plait that seemed to be made of hollowed out bones and who Harry was fairly certain must be a necromancer. Many of the partygoers had runes painted on their foreheads or hands, the source of which looked to be a wizened old witch seated off to one side who was currently painting runework onto the outstretched arms of one of the masked men, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as she patiently drew a fine-tipped brush in well-versed patterns from memory.  
  
Half of him wondered if he was dreaming, but the people here seemed quite solid and so very _present_ as they whirled and moved around him, none of them taking much notice of his existence. What was happening? Who had organized such an ostentatious, over-the-top event? Then again, the answer was fairly simple to deduce considering he was well aware of whose house this had once been. 

Where _was_ Tom in all this mess, anyway? Harry sipped lightly at the wine and found that it was surprisingly warming and had the slightest hint of cinnamon and blackberry to it. With great care he navigated his way through the mess of attendants, avoiding being swept up into a dance by an excited passerby and ducking at one point to avoid a firework that nearly clipped his head as it dipped low before spiraling up to the atrium's ceiling to explode in a burst of color and light. Caught up in the fanfare momentarily as he watched the sparks fade overhead and disperse into glittering bits of light that fell to the floor among the dancers, he felt a tug on his arm and looked down to see the old witch he'd noticed before, gesturing at him with her paintbrush.

'"Runes for connection with the deceased?" she questioned, squinting at him.

"Oh no, I really couldn't--" 

"Are you sure? It's good luck and will help with the rituals later this evening, if you're participating."

Harry was pretty sure he'd said no, but somehow found himself seated in a chair beside the wizard who was waiting for the runework on his arms to dry, the old witch brushing his bangs up out of his face and regarding him thoughtfully. "You're a light wizard, yes?" 

"Um, yes, as far as I'm aware--"

"I know just the thing then." Before he could get a further word in edgewise, she was dragging the brush over his forehead in a z-shape, "Sowilo, for sunlight. You'll be much refreshed when the dawn comes and you will retain that which is bright in you in the face of darkness. Are you planning to take part in the rituals later?"

"Oh well, I wasn't really expecting to, I don't know much about them--"   
  
"Do you want to be able to connect with those you've lost?" the woman interrupted sharply. 

"I...um." The bright, cheerful face of Patricia Weasley flashed in his thoughts momentarily, and Harry's resolve sharpened. "Yes, actually. I think I do."   
  
"I figured you for it," she agreed, "now close your eyes." He did so, and felt the light flicker of the brush over his eyelids. "Gebo, for connection and strengthening of relationships, and Eihwaz, for death." 

Harry hoped that this was all purely symbolic and didn't have any magical power behind it. Blinking delicately as the paint dried, he stood as he was ushered off by the witch for the next partygoer to take his place.   
  
He wandered for a time, finishing off his wine and trying to pick out any recognizable faces among the masses present. It wasn't until he saw a shock of blond hair and a bright, wily grin that he realized that among those present was Abraxas Malfoy, looking much the same as he had in the photograph Harry had found in the master bedroom the evening before. Latching on to the sight of him, he followed along as Malfoy navigated through the crowd and made his way to the center of it all, slipping his arm through that of a taller wizard with dark, wavy hair who was faced away from him, talking with a raptly attentive small group of wix.   
  
"Enough proselytizing to the masses," Abraxas teased, "I'm afraid I must steal you away for a moment." 

The wizard turned, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. Tom was at the height of the best years of his life; there was a healthy flush to his cheeks and he looked to be caught in his element; he stood tall and imposing, with a sense of regality to him that clearly those around him gravitated to. Sharp brown eyes focused in on Abraxas, his neatly-fitted black robes swirling about as he faced him and, laying a hand on his arm, excused himself to his listeners. "I'm afraid I must leave the remainder of our conversation for another time. I will be sure to discuss this with you all later, I'm very interested to hear your opinions on the matter." Tom swept away from the group as they looked after him, lightly resting a hand on the small of Abraxas's back. "Must you always interrupt me when I am working?" he muttered, though there was a bright smile on his face. 

"It's _my_ job to make sure you aren't working yourself into an early grave," Abraxas said cheerfully, "I'm sure you can take a break from politics now and then and have a moment to enjoy yourself. Come dance with me?" 

"Mmm, fair enough. Much as I _do_ enjoy dancing with you, I think there are a number of people here who would frown upon it," Riddle hummed, his fingers spread gently on Abraxas's back as his hand dropped just a hare lower than was socially appropriate. There was no way Harry could miss the transfixed expression on Abraxas's face when he looked up at Riddle and Tom smiled back down at him attentively. 

Two things were solidified for Harry in that moment. The first was that what he was seeing and taking part in was some kind of echo of an All Hallow's Eve long past. The second was that Abraxas Malfoy had most certainly desperately loved Tom Riddle. Harry swiped another wineglass off a house elf's passing tray and took a heavy sip of it, draining half the glass. He wasn't sure _why_ he was seeing this, but he certainly wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to learn more about Riddle's history.   
  
"Since when have you cared what other people think, Tom?" 

"You know how it is, Abraxas, it's all a show. What we do in private is another matter entirely." Riddle's grip on Abraxas tightened, and Harry caught the slight way that Abraxas jerked, startled by the change in contact. "But of course we are not alone here--speaking of which, your wife is looking over this way," Riddle observed as Harry inched closer. "Do you think she wants to steal you back for a dance?" 

"So is Eunolda Lestrange, are you sure you don't want to dance with her?" Abraxas baited.   
  
"That ship has sailed and sank some time ago," Tom dismissed, guiding them both toward the outskirts of the crowd. Abraxas raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. "Oh come now Abraxas, you know how few people can hold my attention for more than a passing evening. How go things with Priscilla?"

"We're still trying, but no pregnancy so far," Abraxas sighed. "I'm starting to wonder if it's something wrong with me. Priscilla is taking fertility potions but there's been no change as of yet."   
  
"You could always say the magic words, you know, and I'll put my mind to it."   
  
"What magic words? Oh please Tom, help me and my wife conceive by whatever dark and dangerous means you have at your disposal?" Abraxas scoffed. "I know the magic exists but I'd rather not risk my family line for it."   
  
"Fair enough," Riddle dismissed, "you'll be far too busy to see me that often raising an infant, after all, so I'll relish your current childless state while it lasts." Abraxas laughed, squeezing Tom lightly against his side which elicited a slight smile from the taller man. Abraxas leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Riddle's neck when no-one looked to be paying much attention.   
  
Harry felt like he was being given a glimpse at something far too private for his comfort, and he looked away. When he glanced back up, Abraxas was whispering something in Riddle's ear but Tom's full attention was locked directly onto Harry, his eyes flickering a deep red as they met his own. A chill went down his spine and Harry hurriedly backed away, losing himself in the crowd in an effort to get away from Riddle's focus. Would he be angry for what he'd seen? Finally reaching the edge of the mass of partygoers, Harry made his way along the wall of the atrium until he found the doors that led out onto the lawn and burst through, feeling like he'd just been squeezed through a tight alleyway on the Knight Bus. 

There were people out here too, but most of them were in black robes with those iron skull masks. They moved with purpose about the lawn but none of them seemed to notice him, far too focused on patrolling the area and setting up an enormous bonfire on the property not far from the cliff edge. Feeling tired and more than a little bit tipsy from the wine, Harry took a seat at the base of a tree not far from the cliff edge. He dozed in and out, distantly shifting between the feeling of curling up in warm bedsheets and feeling the grass beneath his hands and the heat of the bonfire on his face. Nothing quite felt real and he found himself leaning back against the tree bark, disoriented, until he noticed that many more people were beginning to filter out of the atrium to gather on the lawn. The masked men were gathering in a circle around the fire, and there was Tom stepping away from the crowd. Harry couldn't quite gather what he was saying at this distance, Riddle's voice fading in and out as Harry blinked slowly, trying to retain his focus.   
  
"They say that a new era is approaching, one where we will be free to practice as we wish and pass on our traditions to the next generation outside of the shadows, but the time for change is now, not far off in the distant future! We will create a society where ALL magics are treated equally and where we are not oppressed in the name of hiding ourselves from muggles! Let them know us, and should they turn against us as they did in the days of witch burnings, let them know FEAR!"   
  
The crowd roared in approval and Tom raised his hands, arms thrown wide before the bonfire. The flames erupted in a burst of light as a column of fire roared upwards before him in a roiling, white-hot tornado. Harry found himself overwhelmed by the surge of heat as he watched, caught between horror and awe, as the flames took on the shape of a two-headed snake. The flaming creature shot overhead, writhing just above the heads of the crowd and curving back around before rocketing straight upward to disperse into the clouds. It vaporized all it touched as it blanketed the sky with licks of flame, leaving an empty circle overhead beyond which the the distant stars flickered.   
  
Harry had never witnessed such a raw display of power and control. That was _fiendfyre,_ one of the most notoriously hard-to-maintain dark spells known to mankind. Wizards with _that_ kind of magical strength were the sort to go down in history, and suddenly it was all the more wildly suspicious that Harry couldn't find anywhere that Tom had left his mark in his search among ministry records. Riddle had been _obscenely_ _powerful_ and that sort of power would by no means have gone unnoticed. This came with the realization, as Harry watched the crowds before the fire, that all of these people weren't here for All Hallow's. No, all of these people were here for this moment, for Tom himself. And the things he was saying--

 _"You really do have a bad habit of finding your way into places where you aren't welcome, don't you?"_  
  
He blinked. The people were gone and the fire was burning down to embers as the sun began to rise. When had the time passed? Had he nodded off again? Everything around him was covered in a fine glaze of frost, including his hair and clothes. Harry's bones creaked as he staggered to his feet and reoriented himself. The house looked to be back in its usual state of disrepair, the peeling paint on the exterior signaling to Harry that he had returned to the present. It looked as though despite the rain the night previous that should have soaked the wood pile out back, it had been lit and burned to the ground in the time between him going to bed and waking up outside. Rubbing his eyes blearily, Harry stumbled back inside.  
  


  
The house elves hadn't been disturbed by Harry's little sleepwalk jaunt out into the night it appeared. The house was quiet and still when Harry dragged himself inside and made his way upstairs. He shucked off grass and mud-stained pajamas as soon as he made it to his bedroom before making his way into the bathroom to see the damage in the mirror.   
  
He was wet and shivering--he'd probably ended up outdoors while it was still raining, and somehow remained unconscious to the world despite it. There was mud in his hair, caked onto his feet, and all down his back from where he'd rested against the tree roots out on the lawn. His eyes had heavy bags under them as if he'd been up the whole night, and he certainly ached as if he'd slept a good portion of the night outdoors on the ground.   
  
Most inexplicably (and in direct conflation to the idea that the entire events of the night past had been a dream) there was dry, flaking paint on Harry's forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. Harry rubbed at it until the paint flaked off but the skin beneath it was raised and angry, leaving the shape of the rune itself behind.

"Well that's going to look great for my first day back," Harry grumbled, attempting to flatten his hair down over his forehead despairingly. 

Harry scrubbed himself free of dirt in the bath as quickly as he could manage to make himself move, which admittedly wasn't very fast at all. His arms felt like lead, weighted down with exhaustion from the night before. He felt disconnected through the whole process, cleaning himself on autopilot before drying off and carelessly dragging a comb through his wet hair. Upon relocating his wand on his bedside table, a quick _tempus_ charm revealed that it was 4:06am and he had no earthly reason to stay awake except the sense of unease that clung to his thoughts like tar when he laid back down to bed for an attempt at sleep. After about thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling with the small thread of anxiety in the back of his head slowly mutating into something ugly and frightening and impossible to ignore, Harry finally gave up altogether and threw on his work clothes, strapping his wand into its holster on his arm and stomping down the stairs to the kitchen past a sleepy-eyed Pella, who followed him down with a worried expression plastered across her face.   
  
"Is Harry Potter alright?" she asked, clutching handfuls of her skirts as he assembled the coffee filter and lit the stove to heat some water. 

"I'm fine, just--fine, it's been a long night and I can't sleep."   
  
Gentle hands pulled at the sleeve of Harry's shirt, guiding him away from the stove and over to the small kitchen table before the open fireplace. Before Harry could get a cohesive thought pulled together to consider protesting, Pella was fixing him a cup of coffee and heating up pastries she'd made the day before in the oven. "You is looking absolutely terrible," Pella fussed. "Is you getting any sleep at all?"   
  
"Not good sleep, if anything," Harry muttered sourly, curling his hands around the warm coffee mug. This was all Riddle's fault. He wasn't sure how, but he was positive that Tom was responsible for whatever mind-altering event had occurred the night previous.   
  
"Not good," Pella tutted, "You is needing good sleep to do good work today, Mister Potter." She paused momentarily, then helped herself to a pastry as well and pulled herself up into the chair opposite Harry's.   
  
"I think that's a bit of a lost cause at this point," Harry sighed, pausing to take a bite of pastry, eyes widening slightly when he found it had a chocolate center. Warmth flooded through him and Harry was distinctly reminded of how Remus always had some on him at all times throughout his youth, and often produced it at the most opportune moments. In conjunction, Harry was reminded of the last time he'd brought a criminal in to Azkaban and how eerily similar how he was currently feeling was to his last encounter with a dementor. "This is...really good," he mumbled out between bites, finishing off the rest of the pastry and starting in on the next, "Thanks, Pella."   
  
Pella covered an embarrassed blush by refilling his coffee and adding a third pastry to his plate. "It is Pella's duty to look after the house _and_ its occupants, Mister Potter, and you is clearly needing extra looking after."   
  
Harry grinned. "My mum did always say I had as much of a knack for causing trouble as my dad and none of the knack for getting out of it." His cheer soured momentarily at the thought of James, but he pushed it aside. "It seems like I've got nothing but trouble waiting for me when I go back to the Ministry today, so it's good to be prepared."   
  
Pella nodded solidly in agreement and announced, "Then Pella will pack a good lunch for Harry Potter." Leaning forward and raising a hand over her lips, she added with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, "Pella will add extra chocolate."

Harry barked out a laugh, and Pella smiled cheerfully in response. "I'm really glad I met you and Yobbie," he said, setting his coffee mug on the table. "Having you both around makes this place seem so much less empty and lonely."   
  
"Wizarding houses are alive, Harry Potter," Pella responded simply, "You have to treat them right in order to live happily in one. Pella and Yobbie is simply helping for that same purpose. We all is wanting to be happy here and we all is wanting you to be happy...and maybe even the nasty ghost too, though Pella is not knowing if that one is having a single cheerful bone in his body when he was being alive. It is a hard task to make _all_ living here happy and I is unsure if I am being capable of that."  
  
"Well I'll tell you what," Harry said, giving her a small smile, "You don't worry too much about keeping Tom happy. His feelings and his moods are his own business and you're not responsible for someone else's feelings. We're all working together to get this house back to working order, and as far as I've seen that's one of the few things that does seem to make him happy, so I'd say you're already doing a great job."  
  
Pella beamed at him, and Harry didn't have it in him to disrupt her cheer by asking if she'd noticed anything strange last night, and he also didn't have it in him to refuse when she piled more pastries on his plate, reminding him for all the world of an overenthusiastic Mrs. Weasley at one of the family dinner parties at the Burrow dumping extra helpings on his plate and complaining that he was too skinny for a growing boy.   
  


* * *

  
Feeling a bit more revitalized after spending the remainder of the early morning conversing with Pella, Harry went into his first day back to work with a sense of purpose. He held onto that determination stubbornly as he traipsed past his coworker's desks and made his way up to his father's office to knock on the door.   
  
"Come in," James called from inside. Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and trying to pull his expression into something more neutral than the anger that was stirring in his gut at seeing his father again. "Harry," James exclaimed, surprised. "I...wasn't expecting to see you today."   
  
"Well I'm back to work, aren't I?"   
  
"I rather figured you'd avoid me," James admitted. Was it Harry's imagination or did he sound a bit anxious? "So what brings you to my office? Do you want to um, talk about it or--"  
  
"I want to reopen a cold case."   
  
"Come again?" James blinked owlishly.   
  
"I want to reopen a cold case," Harry repeated, presenting the file from under his arm. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, disappeared in 1958 under questionable circumstances and I've come to the conclusion that he was murdered."   
  
"You want to investigate the former owner of your house?" James questioned, regaining his composure quickly before taking the file and cracking it open. "I mean, understandably, but what leads you to the conclusion that he was murdered? Did you find something?"   
  
"I saw several stab wounds on the chest of the ghost at my house. Riddle showed me himself, and he implied to me that his body was burned. I took extensive photographs of every room in the house looking for evidence--I'm sure that the murder took place on the property but I can't locate where specifically, if it was in the house. I did find a few clues in the process of turning the house over that lead me to believe that there was a home invasion of some sort during which he was incapacitated. When Fred and I were first cleaning the place with mum we uh, found the remains of two house elves who looked to have been killed, down on the first floor."  
  
"You never said anything about this," James frowned.   
  
"I didn't want mum to worry," Harry admitted. "The photos of what we found are in that file though." He waited momentarily as his father flipped through the file. "I also have reason to believe that there's been a serious coverup."   
  
"A coverup? Explain," James ordered, all expression of confusion and curiosity melting from his face and replaced with the cold, hard look of a seasoned auror who had faced down many a trial and was well prepared to attack whatever Harry threw at him next. Harry was once more reminded that his father, while usually jovial and prone to jokes and pranks, took his job deadly seriously.   
  
"Riddle's clean. Way, way too clean. His file's pretty much empty except for the things I've since added to it. There's nothing past the initial reports to indicate that any real investigation was done into his disappearance beyond questioning a select few people rather loosely about where they'd been and narrowing down a time frame for how long he'd been missing before it was reported. There's not even the slightest hint in his file that he's a dark wizard, next to nothing about his background whatsoever beyond his school records, and there _should be,_ there should be _loads more_ but it's like no work was put in at all. Beyond that I couldn't find a trace of him anywhere on record short of the deed to the property and again, that's something that _he_ presented to me. It's as if beyond this scant bit of information the wizarding world seems to have forgotten that he existed but that doesn't make _any_ sense--"

"Why doesn't it make sense, Harry?" James asked, his words slow but carefully redirecting Harry from getting worked up.   
  
"He's a bloody _scarily_ powerful dark wizard. Or well, he was. The kind that would have made waves, but there's not even ripples left behind. It's like he's been erased. And I have good reason to believe that he was politically influential and was starting to make some very dangerous waves."   
  
"That's quite an accusation Harry," James warned, then paused and raised his hand. "Not that I don't believe you, I doubt you'd take this to me if you didn't think there was something worth looking into and it definitely sounds like something that could be, well. Big."

"I know," Harry agreed, taking a deep breath. "And I don't have any solid evidence I can give at this time, which is why I want to reopen investigation."   
  
"Don't have any--then where is all of this coming from?"

"He...well, he showed me, I think. Not intentionally, but I think he...projects, sometimes. I don't know how else to explain it. Riddle is a strange ghost--and an unnervingly powerful one who can impact his surroundings in unusual ways, including, as it turns out, anyone inhabiting the house. I'm not in any danger from it, I don't think--but I've had vivid, lucid dreams in which I spoke to him and he's _actively acknowledged_ the conversations had in those dreams, directly to me. Last night--I saw a memory of an event that took place at the house. He was at a party talking politics with loads of people--all of them were dark wizards and witches, or at least the signs pointed to it--and the things he was saying were incendiary, Dad. He was talking about creating a wizarding society where dark wizards could practice as openly and easily as any other type of magic, but he was also talking about breaking the statute of secrecy. And _crowds_ of people were listening to him, cheering him on in support while he talked about how if the rest of the world wouldn't accept magic, they should learn to fear it. Someone like that wouldn't just _disappear_ and not leave traces."

James' expression was grave as he looked back to the file before him and flipped through it carefully. "I don't like what I'm hearing about this ghost of yours. Spirits with the ability to break into someone's mind? That's very, very dangerous footing. If he was as powerful of a wizard as you say, or as conniving as he sounds to be, then I don't think that house is safe for you, Harry."   
  
"He may have been someone important, someone who was making a disturbance among practitioners, but I have seen no evidence that he means ill toward me or that he is focused on anything except the repair work being done on the house. If anything he seems to find the idea that I'd find out who killed him both irritating and amusing, and he's not being particularly helpful about it. He may be the weirdest ghost I've ever met, and probably the darkest spirit I ever _will_ come across, but he still deserves closure for what happened to him and the people responsible for what was done to him should face the consequences of their actions by law." 

"Be that as it may, you should think about how wise it is to remain in that house when you don't know what he's fully capable of. Maybe you should come back home and--"   
  
"No. Even if that house became completely inhospitable, I wouldn't be moving back in with you and Mum," Harry said flatly, holding tight to his resolve. "I've discussed this at length with Hermione and I don't think he poses any immediate danger to me. I've taken all the precautions we could think of to make sure that there isn't anything negatively impacting me or my health and there has been no sign that he has ill intent toward me."

James did not look convinced in the least, but he closed the file. "I'll put through the paperwork. The case is yours, but don't get too carried away with this, Harry, and if you think you're even close to being in over your head you come directly to me, alright? I've got your back and if this uncovers something seedy going on here in the Ministry itself, you're going to need allies if you plan to take an investigation anywhere substantial."   
  
"You won't regret this," Harry said, fighting back a grin. He knew he'd hooked into something big--perhaps bigger than the case he'd left when he went to cold case files, if he was right. He wasn't moving on from his failures, but he was moving forward in a different direction and that was far better than dwelling on the catastrophe of his departure from active criminal cases.   
  
"Don't make promises you might not be able to keep," James warned, but gave a small hint of a smile. "Knock 'em dead, Harry. But be _careful_ about it, yeah?"  
  
"That's some advice coming from you," Harry couldn't help but retort before they were both overtaken by the sudden awkwardness of how natural it was to fall into their usual back-and-forth banter. Clearing his throat, Harry took the case file back and tucked it under his arm. "I'll keep you in the loop on any progress I make."   
  
"Good," James nodded. "I look forward to hearing your findings."   
  
With that, Harry strode out of his father's office with a strange energy bubbling in the pit of his stomach fit to bursting. Something had shifted in the wind and he could see the goal before him, if only he could reach out and find the answer that had been plaguing him since he'd first confirmed Riddle's identity. Who had killed him, and why?

* * *


	10. Fiddling with Finances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a good long while to write, particularly since the pandemic really started to hit hard in my state about midway through the chapter. I haven't been able to find the motivation to write much of anything for the past month as I've been temporarily furloughed from work and have been in quarantine for over a month now, but I finally managed to complete this chapter. Hopefully there will be several more coming out in the following months, but I doubt I'll be able to update as frequently as I did before all of this began to impact NY as badly as it has. 
> 
> On a separate note, while this is definitely a slow-burn fic we will begin to see things ramping up in the coming chapters as Harry begins to more proactively seek out information about Tom. I hope everyone is enjoying reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to watching the story grow with all of you in future updates! Enjoy, and I hope everyone is staying safe out there.

"Wow Potter, you look like shit."   
  
Harry's gaze flicked up from the file spread across his desk to where Perry was leaning on the door frame of his office entrance. "Thanks," he drawled. "I feel like shit too."   
  
"Looks like being away for a couple months didn't do you much good then?"   
  
"Well it did, actually. I bought a house and moved in, I just slept poorly last night." That was one way to put it.   
  
Perry let out a low whistle. "Sounds like something you'd do."   
  
Harry's lips turned down in a frown. "What do you mean by that?"   
  
"Well. You never mentioned planning to buy a house before leaving. Kinda impulsive, innit? You've always been more 'n a little reckless." His former partner pushed off the door frame and sauntered over to his desk. "So what's James got you on now? Shifting gears to a newer case?"   
  
"An older one, actually," Harry admitted. "Unsolved disappearance that most likely ended in murder. Left a ghost behind but he doesn't want to talk about what happened and there's barely anything to go off of."   
  
"Sounds like something you'd pick. You always did like the hopeless cases," Perry grinned.   
  
"Any luck on yours?"   
  
Perry's good-natured mood dropped visibly, and he leaned his hands on Harry's desk, bowing his head. "We're still struggling to narrow down a criminal profile. We've got no witnesses, each disappearance and kill doesn't bear entirely similar markers, but things are evolving. The baby inferi was definitely a change of pace."   
  
"That's one way to put it," Harry sighed. "But change isn't necessarily a bad thing in this case. Change means there's more information and more to material to work with. And with my prior belief that it was someone who knew all of these families and was acquainted with them disproven, we can say that they're targeted in advance but that the killer is keeping their distance and observing until the time of kidnapping. Also, setting an inferi loose in Knockturn is something that was clearly done with intent. They want to sow unrest and for folks to be afraid of them. They want people to know they're out there. Otherwise they would have dumped the body somewhere inconspicuous. They're getting showy, and when they get showy they make mistakes. You'll catch them, Perry, I know you will." _You'll succeed where I fell short,_ Harry thought, both a bit bitter and a bit hopeful.   
  
"Thanks," Perry said with a grim smile. "I'll keep you in the loop if anything new happens, yeah?"   
  
"I'd appreciate that," Harry responded, feeling more conflicted about that than he let on. Half of him wanted to avoid anything to do with the case. The other half wanted access to every last detail, but that made it all the harder to resist the urge to snoop around looking for anything the others might have missed, and that's what had gotten him into so much trouble in the first place. He paused. "What are they saying about--no, never mind. I don't want to know, after that article."

Perry's lips twisted. "It's a mixed bag, honestly. There's folks who are saying you've gone round the bend, there's some who think the guy you pinned that time might be guilty still, other folks think he deserved it anyway even if he isn't. Most everyone agrees that you needed some distance from the case either way, you were tearing yourself apart over that little Weasley girl."   
  
Harry scrubbed his hands against his eyes, then looked up at Perry. "And what do you think?"   
  
"Me? I think that you're the best damn Auror they could've picked for the case but that it's hard to keep a straight head on when it's as close to home as this was for you. I wouldn't be comin' to you about it if I thought you didn't still have sommat to offer in helping find this guy. You're a good Auror, Harry, whatever tripe they're saying about you in the Prophet and otherwise. Don't let it get to you. You're above all that," Perry said seriously, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezing it tightly. "Beyond all that, you're making the best out of a shitty situation and I think regardless of what department branch they've got you on, you'll excel."   
  
"Cold cases is where they send Aurors they don't want to deal with but don't have the balls to fire," Harry muttered.   
  
"Cold cases is where they send people who need a break from the front lines, Harry," Perry corrected.   
  
"I'm not some delicate flower that needs a soft touch," Harry grumbled, "You'd think they'd know that. You'd think _he'd_ know that," he added, thinking a bit bitterly of his father.   
  
"You're definitely not," Perry agreed. "You wouldn't be in this job if you were. You know as well as I that the DMLE has no time to mollycoddle people who aren't fit for the job. You wouldn't be here if you weren't worth your salt as an Auror."  
  
"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't flubbed the biggest case of my career," Harry groused, but he knew Perry was right. He groaned, leaning back heavily in his chair and dragging his fingers through his hair. "I shouldn't be focusing on this so much. I just can't shake the feeling that I'm not going to be able to pull forward from this."  
  
"You will, Potter. You always do, you're a stubborn git like that," Perry grinned, whacking his arm. "Now let's leave the self-pity for someone less motivated and get back to work, yeah?"   
  
Harry gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Perry."   
  
"You're welcome. Also, you owe me a drink next Friday night."   
  
"What for?" Harry blinked.   
  
"For the pep talk," Perry answered, his expression falsely innocent. "What, you didn't think I gave pep talks for free to just anybody, did you?" he teased. "Think of it as penance for leaving me all by my lonesome for two months." Harry gave a snort of laughter as Perry gave a cheerful goodbye wave and slipped out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. 

Harry re-settled himself in his seat, looking over the file before him with renewed energy. He needed to figure out a starting point, a mode of attack. But honestly, did it matter where he began? The case was ancient and the trail long-cold. Anything he gathered beyond the sparse accounts in the file would be progress. Closing the manila folder, Harry stood and grabbed his coat and scarf. Sitting here and ruminating about what to do next wasn't going to get him any closer to solving this, so he would start at the point that was closest to him, where he only had half the information and was certain that he could glean a few secrets--Lucius Malfoy.   
  


* * *

  
Actually getting an appointment to speak with Lucius Malfoy was a nightmare and a half. Harry wrote him three separate times requesting to meet only to receive perfunctory responses indicating that unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy was busy, unfortunately Mr. Malfoy was out of the country, unfortunately Mr. Malfoy was attending to business matters and did not have time. Harry was at the point where if he thought he could get away with it, he'd have stormed Malfoy Manor in search of the man who he was almost entirely certain was actively avoiding him.   
  
When push came to shove, Harry found that he had to make some sacrifices in the name of progress. He may not be able to get Lucius Malfoy to meet with him, but there was _one_ Malfoy who almost certainly would speak to him and potentially even give him a few answers if he played his cards right. As luck had it, while getting Lucius Malfoy to meet with him was like pulling teeth, Narcissa Malfoy was entirely amenable to meeting for afternoon tea when he inquired delicately about the Gladstone Charity Gala, which Mrs. Malfoy was heavily involved as a part of their planning committee. All it took was a slight suggestion that he was considering making a donation in the name of a friend and he received a cordial, pleasantly-worded response inviting him to afternoon tea to further discuss what opportunities could be expanded upon for the young witches from impoverished countries who stood to benefit from the program, which helped fund school supplies and for a lucky few, provided an apprenticeship grant in the mastery of their choice.   
  
Malfoy Manor was as garishly beautiful as it was intimidating, Harry thought as he walked up the front drive from the entryway. Either side of the cobbled road leading up to the house was overflowing with elegantly-trimmed bushes, the two most impressive of which had been painstakingly magically manicured into the shape of peacocks, their tails trailing behind them in a drapery of lush flowers. Not far past these were two marbled fountains that were home each to impressive statues that turned to watch Harry as he passed, before returning to their original pedestaled positions.   
  
A house elf was waiting for him at the door, clothed in a neatly-pressed, clean white pillowcase. "Mister Potter will follow," the elf announced as the doors opened, and off he went, clearly expecting Harry to trail along after.   
  
Narcissa Malfoy was waiting in the back garden in a rather fanciful gazebo, a full tea ceremony with various pastries and sandwiches laid out centrally on a small round table, the witch herself seated with prim elegance at its side. She watched him with a placid, unreadable expression as he approached.   
  
"Take a seat, Mr. Potter," she said, gesturing to the open chair across from her. Harry dropped into it with an awkward nod of thanks, looking over the full spread before him and trying not to be quite as impressed as was clearly expected. Everything the Malfoys did was a carefully-coordinated display of wealth, opulence, and class, but it was also a display of power and he would do well to remember that as lovely as this spread was, there was intent behind it.   
  
"Thank you for inviting me to your home," Harry addressed Narcissa politely as she proceeded to pour a cup of freshly-brewed tea that smelled flowery and probably could have been made of liquid gold for how expensive it must be.   
  
"You are most welcome," Narcissa responded with restrained pleasantry, "Do you take your tea with sugar?"   
  
"Uh, yes, thanks," he said awkwardly as she proceeded to set the tea to steeping.   
  
"It is my understanding that you were interested in making a possible donation toward the Gladstone Program for Young and Impoverished Witches, Mr. Potter?"   
  
"Yes, I heard about it from my friend Hermione actually, and she pointed me in your direction."   
  
"So this has nothing to do with the numerous attempts that you've made this past week to get in contact with my husband?" Narcissa questioned, one perfectly-plucked eyebrow raising delicately as she neatly transferred a fancy-looking pastry to her plate with a small pair of tongs. Harry choked, and a small smile curved across Mrs. Malfoy's face. "I see. So you took the second best route to attempt to ply me for information in return for a donation...I'm certain considering your childhood rivalry with my dear son that speaking to him was out of the question."   
  
Harry gave an awkward laugh, hands clenched in his lap. She'd clearly had him pegged from the moment that she received the letter. "Admittedly I wasn't left with many other options to get the answers I'm seeking, but I'm surprised you'd take me up on this when you were under the impression that I had ulterior motives. I still am interested in hearing about the charity--it sounds like something that could do a lot of good for a lot of people, and there are definitely a lot of young wix who are getting left behind due to lack of financial access to materials and education--but yes, I do have some questions that I'm trying to find answers to and the closest thing I have to a lead is the knowledge the Malfoy family has in regards to this particular matter."   
  
"That particular matter being the home that you purchased from my husband?" Narcissa questioned, pouring out and preparing two cups of tea and handing the first one to Harry. "I would expect it must have something to do with that, considering there's little else that could possibly connect you to my husband."  
  
"Well--it's not so much the house itself that I want to focus on," Harry explained. "I'd rather learn more about it's former owner. I work in the cold case department at the DMLE, and I've come across his file but it's...brief, to say the least, and I'm under the impression that there's much more to the story and it's rooted in who Tom was beyond what was known to polite wizarding society."   
  
Narcissa frowned. "You call him Tom. That seems rather informal for someone investigating his case," she observed, raising the cup to her lips.   
  
"Well, I am trying to understand what happened, yes, but it's hard to go about calling him 'Mr. Riddle' when I interact with him so often. He still lives in the house, after all."   
  
The blood drained from Narcissa's face, and she carefully set her teacup down on its plate with shaking fingers. "Oh. I see."   
  
Harry's gaze flicked up from her hands to her face. "Are you alright, Mrs. Malfoy?"   
  
"Quite," she said shortly, clearly not alright at all.   
  
"That alarms you, for him to be a ghost. Why?"   
  
Narcissa lightly flicked her wand at a spot on the lace tablecloth where a bit of tea had spilled from her cup, removing a spreading stain. "It is less the fact that he is a ghost and more that it is confirmation of his death. He was a close associate of our family in his lifetime and it is regretful to hear that he has indeed passed on."   
  
"Or maybe Lucius mentioned what he looked like, when he attempted to go onto the property after I renewed his awareness of the location?" Harry questioned carefully.   
  
Narcissa clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "I don't know what you intend to glean from this conversation, Mr. Potter. I know as much about Mr. Riddle as anyone who was aware of him. His time was well before mine and I'm afraid that my own family members who may have been able to answer your questions have also passed on."   
  
"It's my understanding that Abraxas Malfoy was a very close associate of Tom's," Harry acknowledged, "I wasn't aware that your family was as well."   
  
"He did associate with the Black family for a short period," Narcissa agreed, "but my family prefers to keep to themselves and steer clear of individuals that may...unbalance the scales, so to speak."   
  
"So you're aware of his political machinations, then."   
  
"Anyone who knew of him in pureblood circles was aware of his political machinations, Mr. Potter, this is not news."   
  
"It's certainly not something that was mentioned in his case file."   
  
"Well it wouldn't be," Narcissa sniffed. "The Ministry does not care for anyone who expresses dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs regardless of the direction of their thinking, but they dislike it especially when such thoughts are espoused in opposition to the statute of secrecy. You certainly wouldn't see any such movements reaching the pages of the Daily Prophet."   
  
"No," Harry said slowly, "I expect I wouldn't. And that's just the reason why I think it's all the more important for me to understand what's going on--not just for what happened in the past, but what its impact on the current state of affairs is."   
  
"And you intend to expand upon Mr. Riddle's case files from this conversation?"   
  
"I would, at least, like to learn enough that I can begin to discern which direction I need to go in to get the proper answers," Harry explained. "Tom is a very unusual ghost and I want to understand how he came to be in the state he is in. You could say that I have a bit of a personal stake in the matter at this point. Regardless of who he was and what he meant to the wizarding world at large and on a more direct scale, I think that he and those associated with him deserve the closure of knowing what truly happened. Aren't you curious?" Harry questioned, "I'm _very_ curious as to how someone who had such unique ideas and expressed them as loudly as Riddle did could just...disappear, without a trace being left behind of who he was or what he was involved in. It's a little too clean for my liking."  
  
"You do realize what you are implying."   
  
"I'm sure I have no idea," Harry said cheerfully, pausing to take a bite out of a pastry while Narcissa considered his words.   
  
"My knowledge of the situation is very limited," Narcissa admitted after some time had passed in silence. "You would most likely have better luck speaking to someone who knew him directly, but depending on who you speak to the answers you get may differ. Everyone who was involved with him has their own opinion as to what may have happened, and a good many of the people closest to him would _not_ appreciate an Auror sniffing about for information."   
  
"If you were in my situation, what would you recommend that I do, then?" Harry asked.   
  
Narcissa tapped her fingers on the table's surface, her expression thoughtful. "You do have the ability to go directly to the source, if need be. Mr. Riddle's own account would probably be...highly colored by his own opinions, but would provide the most illumination."   
  
"He's reluctant to speak about his past. I think he doesn't want to incriminate anyone, for one thing, considering he was a practitioner and was probably well aware of others in his community who were doing less than legal things alongside him," Harry responded, though his mind flickered back to the ugly, deep wounds on Tom's chest and the bitterness that seemed to proliferate through any discussion relating to the events leading to his death. He was sure it was more than that, was sure it was personal in some way. Riddle seemed like the sort who would be hatefully shouting the identity of his killer from the rooftops in search of retribution but he seemed resigned instead, which puzzled Harry more than anything else. "My best option at this point is anecdotal knowledge from those who knew him, but the directions I can go from there are limited. I only know of the involvement of the few who were interviewed after his disappearance. I don't know who his friends were, any lovers, associates and the like. I was hoping that the Malfoy family would be able to help point me in the right direction."   
  
"If you're looking for someone who would be willing to speak to you, I might suggest that you speak to Mr. Caricatus Burke? Mr. Riddle was in his employ for a short period of time before he began focusing more intently upon his studies, and Mr. Burke is quite happy to wax poetic about the 'good old days' when he had proper help around the shop."  
  
"Do you know of anyone else who may be willing to discuss him?"   
  
"There are those who still believe in the value of the ideas that Mr. Riddle once espoused," Narcissa responded after a moment's consideration. "You will have difficulty tracking them down, and probably greater difficulty still in getting them to speak to you if your status as an Auror is revealed, but I believe they may be able to shed some light on the intensity of the situation, should you be able to make contact. But do be careful if you do, Mr. Potter. Many of them are extreme in their devotion."   
  
"I see," Harry said, leaning back in his chair. "Is there anything that you can share with me about the history of the movement Tom was involved in? I aim to get as well-rounded an image of what was going on at the time as possible."   
  
"From my understanding, Mr. Riddle's political machinations began while he was in Hogwarts among a small, close-knit group of friends--mostly in his own house, but there were a few others beyond it whose attention he captured. He was very much respected by those few and they did everything in their power to lift his words to greater audiences. Mr. Riddle didn't have any proper social connections of his own as he was from a family that had, for the most part, died off entirely. He pulled himself up from nothing and made a name for himself with the aid of a select few. For some time--I'm not certain, you'd have to ask Mr. Burke--he worked at Borgin & Burke's to save some amount of income, and then set off traveling throughout Europe and Asia, going back and forth between his studies and maintaining contacts in Britain. He was very ambitious, focusing both on furthering his understanding of deep magics and studying old, forgotten texts and traditions while simultaneously keeping a political foothold within the community that he could expand upon once he returned to permanent residence, and he did just that upon his return up until his death."   
  
"Could you tell me a bit more about the ideas behind his politics?" Harry questioned.   
  
Narcissa tapped her lips delicately. "If you want a clearer picture you are better off talking to someone more...entrenched, I should say, in the particular type of magic he specialized on."   
  
"You mean speaking to dark wix."  
  
"To put it bluntly, Mr. Potter, yes. That is where his foothold began, though it was beginning to spread to a more public audience when he disappeared. He adamantly believed that the statute was the worst thing to happen to wizardkind, framing the establishment of the Ministry as we know it as a hostile grab for power from a select few elite who have maintained control over wizarding government for many years. Frankly speaking, he isn't incorrect in the observation about the balance of power in this country. His words appealed to many who felt persecuted by the strict rule of the Ministry, and still do to this day. If you look in the right places you will find many who still speak of him and still preach his views."   
  
"That's...intense," Harry admitted, a bit overwhelmed. He held a strong suspicion that this had come down to an altercation between Riddle and the Ministry itself, and Narcissa's words only led further credence to the idea. Still, he couldn't form opinions--this needed to be based on fact and evidence, not his own suppositions as to what may have happened. "You've given me a great deal to think about and explore."   
  
"I do hope it is of help to you, Mr. Potter. I also hope that should you continue down this path, you will not mention to any particular individuals anything direct about my family's contribution to your investigation. I would much prefer that we avoid any potential fallout that could come of digging in places that many would prefer remained hallowed ground."   
  
"I will do my best to protect your family's name from involvement in this case as long as there is no clear direct involvement from the Malfoy family," Harry assured.   
  
Narcissa looked him square in the eye and said sharply, "You will not 'do your best', Mr. Potter. You will simply do it. I may have placed some tentative trust in you as my husband has by selling the house to you, but my family is not a sacrifice thrown onto the pyre for the sake of the answers you are chasing. You are delving into something that is far beyond you and that will _inevitably_ lead to an ugly death if you fail...and might yet still if you succeed. I will not have my family dragged down to destruction along with you."   
  


* * *

  
Harry returned home feeling newly motivated. His conversation with Narcissa about Riddle's history had been short and a bit stilted, but she'd kept him for some time after to speak at length about her charity involvement. He supposed he deserved that at the very least for having intended to trick her into meeting with him. It hadn't all been that boring either surprisingly enough, and he held a newfound appreciation for the amount of extensive work and politicking that Mrs. Malfoy did on a regular basis in order to benefit a variety of such charities and programs. He'd been of the impression that a pureblood household such as the Malfoy's would sit on their money and grandstand about the possession of it--and that was part of it, yes--but there was all sorts of work they did in investing, stocks and shares, and management of a variety of businesses alongside Narcissa's work with a number of nonprofit organizations that she clearly felt deeply invested in. It made him think a bit more seriously about his own inheritance, which he likewise had been sitting on aside from investing in Fred and George's joke business.   
  
He supposed it was yet another part of adulthood that he would have to master, to start taking his finances more seriously. He'd spoken a bit with Narcissa about it which had proven to be a surprisingly enlightening conversation even as it seemed to boggle him even more, but it had given him an idea for yet another way to glean a bit of information about Riddle's life. Learning about how someone utilizes their finances, Narcissa had advised, can tell you a great deal about a person. That thought led him up to Riddle's cluttered office with a tray of snacks from Pella in hand to munch on as he set himself to the task of sorting through Riddle's papers. He quickly realized that there was a method to the madness; financial investments were in one pile, a booklet tracking Riddle's every expense and his Gringotts Account balance had been tucked into a neat little out-of-the-way corner beneath another pile of related papers and receipts. That particular book was _heavily_ cursed against magical meddling but didn't react at all to a bit of delicate handling as Harry thumbed through the pages. Riddle it seemed had saved every last little thing from itemized records for his potions ingredient purchases from Slug & Jiggers' to an old receipt for toasted coconut pistachio ice cream from a newly-opened Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlor.   
  
It wasn't long before Harry's activity in that particular room caught Riddle's interest. Harry didn't look up from his readings at the slight creak of the door behind him, sucking at the tip of a sugar quill while he tried to make sense of Tom's organization process. "I can't make heads or tails of most of this," he admitted, pushing the nearest stack of papers away from him. Warm, long-fingered hands slid to rest upon his shoulders as Tom leaned over him to glance at what he was busied with.   
  
"Meddling in my finances, Harry?" he questioned. "Not searching for clues here too are you?"   
  
"I am absolutely meddling. You know me, I'm a meddler to the bone," Harry joked back. "That's part of it, but I'm also trying to figure out how to manage my own finances and I'm not really sure where to start. My dad always handled that for our family, but I have my own earnings and inheritance that's just sitting in a vault somewhere and I'm not sure what to do with it."   
  
"As a descendant of a proud pureblood line, your father should have taken up the task of instructing you on managing money," Riddle observed.   
  
"That's the thing is I don't think my father's really paid much mind towards investments and the like. He just let what's in the family vaults sit there and takes what he needs when he needs it--we didn't grow up needing that much really, and my parents always liked to keep things simple. Admittedly, he never really offered to teach me about it and I never really bothered to ask so I suppose that's on me."   
  
He could practically feel the frown radiating from behind him. "Well that won't do. You're an heir to some amount of wealth, you should know how to use it properly. If you don't want to manage it yourself, you could hire an accountant," Riddle suggested.  
  
"What did you do in your time?" Harry questioned, tilting his head back to look up at Tom. This brought them almost uncomfortably close, but Harry didn't mind it that much. He doubted he'd ever become entirely accustomed to Tom's jarring looks, but he supposed he could get used to anything with enough time. Be that as it may, it was interesting to note how Riddle's features had evolved and become more defined with the passage of time, to the point that Harry could easily tell beneath the smoky visage that there was a wry smirk there beneath the sharp eyes looking down at him.   
  
"I never much trusted others with my finances. I've always been very much a skinflint with my earnings as I built them up from nothing. Of course I did have an orator--whom you've met--with a history of accounting on payroll to manage my greater assets, but he never had such a thing as direct access to my vaults, which a family accountant may. The first thing you should do is start keeping record of your earnings and expenses. You may not want for money, but if you've no idea how much you're spending on average then you can't really be informed about your purchases and investments."  
  
"Wouldn't the banks have some record?"   
  
"They would have records of your withdrawals and deposits, yes, but they wouldn't be itemized if they are shared with you. You have to keep track of those sorts of things for yourself. The wisest thing to do is get a good sturdy book with continuously manifesting blank pages and ward it to hell and back. If you're smart about it you can link it to a little notepad or booklet you can carry with you whenever you're making any particular purchases, and it will record whatever you write in the notepad into the main ledger. Your house elves can also make purchases for you, such as running to the grocer or potion supply shop and the like, and if given regular permission and access to coin then they can also help keep record of basic purchases for the home and for food and other necessities, if you trust them well enough with it."   
  
"That's a good idea," Harry hummed thoughtfully, leaning back a bit in his seat. Tom squeezed his shoulders lightly in an almost friendly gesture, then swayed past him to flip delicately through his own papers.   
  
"Found anything particularly enlightening from my records yet?" he questioned, a slight lilt of amusement in his voice.   
  
"Not anything I can make any great sweeping observations about, except that you liked pistachio ice cream." Riddle chuckled, leaning back against the desk and regarding Harry with something that might border on growing fondness, if Harry wasn't mistaken. "I bet you've got a list of loads of illicit purchases hidden in here somewhere that I'd probably give my left toe to get a good peek at, but I doubt you'd be so helpful as to point it out to me," Harry grouched.   
  
"Oh I would never make it that easy for you," Riddle purred. "You're an Auror, you like a challenge too much for me not to dangle one before your nose whenever I get a chance."   
  
Something about this conversation was just barely toeing the line between friendly banter and something else, Harry thought to himself as he kicked back in the desk chair, flipping through a stack of notations. It was almost too easy to tease back and forth with Tom like this. Perhaps he was allowing himself to be too familiar with his resident specter, all things considered, but he didn't see the harm in a bit of friendliness. It could only be a good thing, right?   
  
"I'm going to need to set up my own home office at some point," Harry announced, setting the stack of papers aside. "I think I know just which room I'll use for it."  
  
"Bringing a bit of your work home with you?" Tom questioned.   
  
"I feel like I've been bringing a bit of home with me to work if anything really, but yes. The Ministry isn't really organized about what they do with their cold case files, and I've got long evenings to pull going over old cases so there's little harm in me taking a bit of work home with me."  
  
Riddle nodded, pushing off of the desk to pace slowly about the small office space. "Whatever you do with redesigning one of the rooms, make sure that it doesn't look too out-of-place with the rest of the house."  
  
"It's a sort of a comfort thing for you, isn't it?" Harry asked, "having everything be so similar to when you were living?"   
  
"You could say that," Tom agreed. "This is your home, yes, but I put a great deal of effort into making it my own when it came into my possession. It wasn't like that at first; I was very spartan with everything, only using this as a place to do my work and sleep and little else, but a close associate of mine pointed out that part of decorating your own living space is the act of taking ownership of that space and making it yours."   
  
"Was it Abraxas?" Harry questioned curiously.   
  
Tom's lips curled, his expression distant. "It was a bit of a joint effort between him and Adrian Rosier, another associate of mine."  
  
"Adrian Rosier?" Why did that name sound so familiar?  
  
"A friend from my school days," Tom dismissed. "He's probably quite old now if he hasn't passed on."   
  
"Have you ever wondered about connecting with them again?" Harry questioned. "I mean, it would certainly be different, but--"   
  
"Many of my friends and associates have gone on to live quite separate lives, I'd expect, and I am little but a figment of the past to them. I wouldn't want them to see me in this state."   
  
That seemed painfully sad to Harry. "Not even those closest to you?"   
  
" _Especially_ not those closest to me," Tom said with a bit of a warning edge to his tone. "Don't go getting any ideas, Potter."   
  
Harry grinned, leaning back in his seat. "Oh, don't worry I wouldn't even dream of it," he teased. "But it must be awfully lonely here with no-one but me and a couple of skittish house elves for company."   
  
"You are enough," Tom said simply, but Harry found himself surprised by the depth of the expression accompanying those words. "I need little else, for now."   
  



	11. Missing Persons

After a good week of trying to gather information on the Riddle case and making some marginal progress with the Malfoys, Harry found himself very much looking forward to the weekend. He'd been in and out of the DMLE throughout the week working on his caseload, but maintaining a busy workload had done nothing to remove the feeling of his colleague's eyes following him whenever he was there. He told himself that everything would return to some degree of normalcy eventually, but Saturday came as a heavy relief nonetheless.  
  
It had been Hermione's suggestion for Harry to get a bike. He certainly couldn't be seen flying about on his broom, and he needed some visible way to get from place to place whenever he was out around Canesworth or taking a long trek to the neighboring town for groceries and the like. Part of it was about avoiding suspicion, but another part of Harry wanted to have some connection to the local muggles much as he had when living in Godric's Hollow, which had been an integrated wizarding village. He almost found it strange to be the only local wizard around for miles, but he was slowly getting used to it. Living up on the hill gave him some much-desired isolation from wizarding society, but humans were social creatures regardless of whether they were wizarding or muggle, and Harry very much wanted to have a positive relationship with his neighbors.   
  
Luckily enough, the weather was relatively decent (if rather chilly and gray as they were entering into November), and with a thick coat and a cap and scarf that had been gifted to him by the Weasley's, Harry was kicking off from the edge of the pathway to Blackbarrow Manor and heading down the road into the village below. A few folks were out and about around their homes. He felt their eyes following him as he passed. The roads themselves were mostly deserted save for a rusty old blue truck with a large, friendly dog hanging out the open window that rumbled by on his way toward the pub he'd first stopped into upon discovering the area a couple months back. There wasn't much to the village itself; a single paved road stretched between a smattering of old stone cottages, a few farmhouses scattering away from there to disappear off into the surrounding countryside. There was a single pub and a small grocery, but otherwise no businesses in the area. Harry parked his bike outside the pub and wandered in, dropping into a seat at the bar.   
  
"You're back," the bartender observed, glancing away from the small television mounted on the opposing wall where reruns of an old rugby match were playing.  
  
"I'm surprised you remember me," Harry said, offering an embarrassed smile as he reached for one of the small paper menus down at the end of the bar.   
  
"Don't see new faces around here that often, it's mostly local folk."   
  
"Well, I suppose you'll be seeing me more often then."   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"I bought the old manor up on the hill," Harry explained, "I'm working on restoring it."   
  
The bartender fell silent, regarding Harry speculatively. Harry had the strong sensation that he was being sized up, but by the bartender's expression he wasn't quite sure what to make of him. "Well that's a surprise. What's your name, boy?"   
  
"Harry, Harry Potter."   
  
"I'm Noah, but you can call me Harper. You'll probably see my wife Evelyn out and about now and again. That old codger over there in the back is Otto, he's the one owns the old blue Ford out front."   
  
Harry glanced to the back of the pub where a skinny, gruff elderly fellow sat with a large German shepherd laying at his feet beneath the table. He had a weathered corduroy cap pulled low over thick brows, the heavy wrinkles of his crow's feet barely betraying a sharp, watchful gleam of dark eyes shining beneath. He let out a rough 'harrumph' and turned his back to Harry, focusing stolidly on the plate of eggs and corned beef hash before him.   
  
"Don't mind him too much, he's here every morning. Actually lives closest out to the manor of anyone in the area, so I s'pose you could call him your neighbor," Harper remarked, then tapped the grease-stained menu in Harry's hands. "So what'll it be?"   
  
Harry ordered and settled back to wait for his fry-up, focusing in on the rugby match on the television while Harper fired up the griddle behind the counter. The silence stretched comfortably, the only noise in the establishment the low volume sports match, the clink of Otto's fork and knife on his plate, and the hiss of frying food from behind the counter.

"So," Harper began, breaking the easy quiet, "Anything interesting happen while you've been up there?"   
  
The sound of Otto's fork and knife on his plate fell silent.   
  
"Not much," Harry said carefully, his tone as casual as he could manage. "It's a lovely place and it's cleaning up nicely."   
  
"Really? Nothing...strange, ever?" Harper questioned, flipping an egg.   
  
"Strange like what?"   
  
"Well, there's been word for decades around the area that that place is haunted. Like I said before, nobody goes up there for good reason."   
  
"Haunted, huh," Harry hummed. "What sort of things have happened, to make folks think it's haunted?"   
  
"We've been seeing lights on in the house in the evenings for decades. Otto says he hears strange noises out in the woods, and those parts are known to be treacherous at times," Harper said. "I'd be careful about going out at night or if there's a heavy fog coming off the seaside...there's been folks as headed out that way and don't come back. It ain't common mind you, but it happens."   
  
"Disappearances?" Harry felt a cold chill pass through him, hairs raising on the back of his neck.   
  
"I understand if you don't believe me, sounds like a bunch of tripe, but it's true." Harper explained, "I think it's been about...five people, 'ave gone missing over the years, that we know of. Something like that."   
  
"That's a lot, for such a small village," Harry observed. There was only one thing that could be responsible for that, if what this muggle was saying was credible.  
  
"It's usually outsiders who come to the area for some reason or another," Harper whispered, leaning over the counter. "Odd folk. We've seen 'em pass through but they never leave. The local police think we're just bored and superstitious out here so they don't take it serious, especially since they never find trace of 'em and no-one in the surrounding area's reported anyone missing that matches the descriptions." Harry stared down at the plate that Harper dropped in front of him, his appetite gone. "You're sure you've never seen anything strange up there?" the barman questioned again.   
  
"Positive," Harry croaked out. Harper was about to respond when Otto slammed his glass down on the table and shoved out from the booth, his dog following after.   
  
"That one's a liar, he knows damn well what's up there," Otto snapped, turning on Harry. "There's no way you haven't seen him if you live in that house." The old man slapped a few bills down on the table and glared at him suspiciously.   
  
"Come off it Otto, he's new--"   
  
"Not that new, he's been up there a good couple o' months, I've seen 'im," Otto retorted. "He's one of _them_."   
  
Harry went very, very still. "What do you mean?" he questioned, "By one of them, what do you mean?"   
  
He did _not_ want to have to obliviate either of these muggles. The elderly fellow clearly had lived here all his life and Merlin knew what he'd seen over the years if the outsiders they spoke of were wizarding, residing nearest to Blackbarrow of anyone else in the area. How close did he actually live? He needed to know what was going on here, possibly see if he could privately interview the man before performing a careful obliviation, at this rate. Who knew how close to breaking the statute the muggles in this town may be?   
  
"He's in law enforcement," Harper cut in, sliding Otto's payment down the counter to the register, "either that or he's military, it's obvious with how he holds himself. I know how you feel about the law, Otto," the barman said pointedly as the register beeped. "Look. I know the history this area has with such things, particularly your history, but whatever Mr. Potter here is doing up there has little to do with that I'm sure. Calm down," he soothed. 

Otto harrumphed loudly, jutting out his chin and shaking a finger at Harry. "You'll see what I mean soon enough," he warned, and with that he stalked outside, pulling his scarf tight as he went. The bell on the door rang faintly behind him, followed shortly after by the slam of a car door which made Harper wince. 

"Sorry about that. He's always been a bit round the twist, but he's a good fellow," Harper sighed, laying his palms flat on the table. "He doesn't care much for law types."   
  
"That's alright," Harry dismissed, staring at the door Otto had disappeared through intently. "I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm." Feeling particularly awkward, he pushed the food about on his plate before finally digging in. "Whereabouts does he live in relation to me?"  
  
"He's just round the bend outside the village proper, a little past the path up toward your manor. His house is a bit up into the woods, but the property border's just short of yours so he wanders a bit at times," Harper informed him, still looking a but surprised and almost having to correct himself when referring to Blackbarrow as Harry's. "Apologies, that place has been a bit of a fixture here and it's got a bit of a tall tale to it, with folks out here reporting seeing strange things about now and then. You'll see soon enough, if you live out that ways."   
  
"Is it common, these strange happenings, with the disappearances and all?" Harry questioned as innocently as he could.   
  
"Perhaps it's a bit like being at the eye of a storm for you," Harper suggested. "All that crazy shite happening around you but hard to see it when you're smack dab in the middle of it all. I was right, wasn't I, you are law enforcement. You don't work with the local department though, do you?"   
  
"I'm a criminal investigator from down towards London, but I do a lot of consulting related to historical criminal investigation...old cold cases and the like."   
  
"What brings you out here, then?"   
  
"I've been looking for a place to settle down that would be a bit of a project. A lot of my work is coordinated remotely," Harry answered, pausing to finish the last of the food off his plate. "I'm very lucky to have the position I do, it allows for a lot of freedom of movement."   
  
"Ah, one of those computer research type jobs then," Harper said, looking a bit uncertain but seeming to take the explanation as good enough. "Don't know much about computers myself," he confirmed. Harry nodded. "Well, don't be a stranger, Mr. Potter. We folks around here like to keep abreast of each other. Don't be minding the odd looks now and then, it's a small place and little of interest happens."   
  
Harry gave a tentative grin at that. "I really don't mean to make much of a splash, but I would like to get to know folks in the area a bit better," he agreed.   
  
"A bit too late not to make a splash then," Harper said with a smile. "It's rare for new folks to move into the area unless they work in the next town over. We're out of the way here after all."  
  
"Well all the same it was nice to meet you and I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."   
  
"Be seeing you," Harper echoed back, nodding to him as he paid for his meal and buttoned up his coat.   
  


* * *

  
By the time that Harry was outside Otto was long gone, but there was no way he could ignore the strange interaction he'd had with the man. Kicking off on his bike, he took his time making his way out of the village limits and heading back towards Blackbarrow, thinking back to Harper's loose directions as he made his way toward the entry to the path to his home. With a simple navigation charm he found the place easily enough.   
  
Otto's cabin was more of a glorified shack with a few small expansions on the main structure. It had been painted blue once upon a time but the color had long since flaked off in most places. There was scrap metal piled in the yard and a small fenced-off garden stretched around the side and back of the building. An empty wooden rocker sat on the porch with an old fleece blanket thrown over the back. The muggle's dog immediately began barking excitedly from behind a patched screen door, tail wagging as it pranced about and whined to be let out to greet him as he walked up the dirt drive up to the house. Otto appeared momentarily in the doorway to soothe his dog, but at the sight of Harry his eyes went wide. He pulled the creature inside and hurriedly slammed the door shut, locks clicking into place on the other side just as Harry reached it.   
  
Harry knocked on the door, gearing up for the unwelcoming reception he was about to receive. "Ah, Mr...Otto? It's your neighbor, um, Harry Potter--"   
  
"Go away!"  
  
"I just want to talk about--"   
  
"We ain't got nothing to talk about, boy! Now get off my property before I sic my dog on you!"   
  
"I don't mean any harm I just want to ask about the--"   
  
"I said go, boy, you deaf too as well as a liar?" Otto snapped from the other side of the door.   
  
Harry took a deep breath, throwing caution to the wind. "You've seen him too, haven't you?"   
  
There was silence, save for the dog barking from the other side of the door, before Otto called out, "Why'd you lie?"   
  
"Come again?"   
  
"To Harper, you lied and said you've seen nothin', why'd you lie?"   
  
Harry paused. He could give another falsehood but he had a feeling that would just throw him into deeper trouble with this muggle. No, the only way to make any progress here was to be direct. Otto thought he was hiding something--and he was--but he didn't know entirely what Otto was aware of or what he'd seen. He had to give him something, toe the line without crossing it entirely. "I don't know how the townsfolk would react to some of the things I could say about the house, and I want to have a good relationship with the folks who live nearby, not make them afraid."   
  
Otto hushed his dog, then responded warily, "You keep your hands where I can see them, and we'll talk."   
  
"Okay, deal," Harry agreed easily enough--and was glad he did, when Otto opened the door to greet him with what was most certainly an illegally owned double-barrel shotgun in his hands. Harry immediately held up his hands as Otto pointed the muzzle at him. He knew very well that a wand could only do so much to protect from something like this.   
  
"You know what this is?" Otto questioned, brandishing the gun.   
  
"Yes, yes I do," Harry acknowledged carefully. "Why wouldn't I?"   
  
"Cause if you were one 'o them you would think that sparky little twigs can stop a good solid load o' buckshot."   
  
Well, that was confirmation right there that the statute had been broken.   
  
"I have no such misinformed notions as that," Harry assured Otto, standing very still.   
  
"Good, then we're on even ground," Otto affirmed, nodding stiffly and fixing Harry with a long, hard stare. "You know what happened up there?"   
  
"I know who the former owner was," said Harry. "But I don't know much about him or the house--I'm doing what I can to learn, though."  
  
"Terrible things have been done up there," Otto spat, "the place is cursed."  
  
"It is," Harry agreed. "Do you know what happened to the former owner of the house?"   
  
"His own folk gone and offed him," Otto said flatly. "Weren't expecting him to stick around--stupid of them, he was the sort to look death in the face and spit at his feet."  
  
Harry blinked owlishly. "You knew Tom Riddle?"   
  
"I was still a kid when it happened, but I did," Otto confirmed. "Used to go mow the lawn for some pocket change now and then, do a bit of handywork in the yard." Otto regarded him suspiciously, then questioned, "Why'd you buy the place?"   
  
"Originally, I did want to restore it."   
  
"And now?"   
  
"And now I'm trying to solve a murder."  
  
Otto lowered the muzzle of his gun marginally. "You ain't a cop."   
  
"I am," Harry insisted. "If you hold on just a second, I've got my badge on me, right in my left coat pocket." He did have a badge--one that was enchanted to show any muggle what they needed to see if he showed it to them--and if he could just get it out, he was sure it would get Otto to calm down marginally, at least.  
  
"Roll up your sleeves first."   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Your sleeves, boy, you heard me!" Harry swore internally while he faked cluelessness. The jig would definitely be up if Otto saw his wand, and Harry didn't want to test his reaction time to grasp his wand versus how fast it took Otto to pull the trigger. "If you're one o' them you'll have the tattoo."  
  
"I don't have a tattoo--"   
  
"Then you should have no worries about showing me, aye?" Otto advanced on Harry, gun trained on his midsection. "Give me your right arm." Harry complied slowly, holding his breath as Otto rucked up his sleeve, the barrels of the shotgun poking him in the chest as a stark warning. Thank Merlin he was left-handed.  
  
"I'm not one of them."  
  
"I'll be the judge of that," Otto said, grabbing Harry's left sleeve and pulling it up to be greeted with the sight of holly, eleven inches long with a phoenix feather core. The elderly muggle's eyes narrowed. "Don't move," he warned, rifling his hand into Harry's jacket's left pocket and flipping out his wallet, proudly displaying the badge of a Metropolitan Police Officer. "That's some bullshit," Otto sniffed. "Like I thought. You aren't one o' them, but you definitely ain't a police officer."   
  
"I am a detective, and I am working on Riddle's case--I'm just not the kind of detective that nonmagical folks are used to dealing with," Harry explained, throwing caution to the wind. "I came here because there was an implication that you might have witnessed people around Riddle's house, and I'm investigating everything and everyone involved in what led to his current state."   
  
"You're the type that go around erasing the memories of anyone who steps out of turn, I'll expect. I'll save you the trouble of tryin' for it, it's been done before and it doesn't stick no matter what you wizard folks do. Old Tom doesn't like anyone round these parts to forget him."   
  
"I'm not going to erase your memories," said Harry, "that would be reckless endangerment at your age."  
  
"I expect you follow some type of law, then, I remember your types trying to muck about the area when he died," Otto observed, looking to Harry who nodded in confirmation. "There's laws against harming us folk."   
  
"There are," Harry agreed.   
  
"And I expect you know that I will fill you full of lead if you try anything."   
  
"I'm very well aware of that, yes."  
  
"Swear you won't."   
  
"I swear," said Harry.   
  
"On your magic, swear it." Harry's eyes widened. "Yeah, he told me you folks have to do it if you swear on it. So go on."   
  
"On my magic," Harry repeated, "I came here with no intent to harm you."   
  
"And you won't now," Otto prodded.   
  
"And I will not do you any harm now," Harry repeated.  
  
Otto lowered his gun. "Alright. I'm listenin', now talk. What do you want?"   
  
Harry released the breath he'd been holding. "Harper said there were people who disappeared here. What do you know about them?"   
  
"They're nuts, for starters," Otto said gruffly. "They come by now and then to try and get on the property. They leave offerings and things up by the gates, sometimes deface the property if they get that far. The load of 'em treat Riddle like he's some kind of god, and they learn real quick that he's a vengeful one if someone steps on his land he doesn't want there."  
  
"How do you know so much about them?"   
  
"They come through here demanding to be led up to the manor now and again--like they know it's there but they can't usually find their way up through the woods--they get turned around a lot, like the trees close in on 'em and just shoo them off in the wrong direction. They may look like hooligans but they've got a penchant for roughin' up anyone who talks back to 'em."  
  
"Which is why you have a gun," Harry observed.   
  
"Which is why I have a gun," Otto agreed. "Went through a lot of trouble to get this, and it does me a bit of good."   
  
"There might be something I can do to keep them from ever coming near you again, that may be more effective," Harry offered.   
  
"Like what?"   
  
"There are wards that can be put around a place to hide it, or to make people just 'not notice' it and pass by around it. I could help you."   
  
Otto gripped his gun, looking a bit uncertain. "You let me think on that and I'll get back to you."   
  
"So these men...what do they look like?"   
  
"All the same. They wear cloaks with hoods and skull masks, and they have a snake tattoo with a skull on their right arms. Buncha clowns in the world's silliest lookin' posse. Couldn't tell you much about looks beyond that. I've told the local law time and again about these trespassers but they never take it seriously."   
  
Harry could distinctly recall the strange, vivid memory of the house party up at the manor, the cloaked men guarding the property's perimeter. "Looks like I'll be having a very interesting conversation with Tom in the near future," he muttered.   
  
"You talk to him?"   
  
"Now and again," said Harry. "He told you about us."  
  
"He did," Otto confirmed, "Haven't spoke since he died, but I know he's there. Speaking of which, it looks like we're done talking for the night."   
  
Harry frowned until he realized Otto was looking past him and turned to follow his gaze. There just at the edge of the woods by the driveway Harry could see Riddle's distant, shadowy silhouette, red eyes flickering from within the darkness. "You can see him," Harry murmured, shocked.   
  
"We all can," Otto responded flatly, "But it looks like you're being called away, and I won't keep you." The elderly muggle whistled to his dog, hefting his firearm against his shoulder and stepping back toward his cabin. "You keep an eye out for those folks, they'll cause no end of problems for you if they realize someone's living up there," he warned from the doorway.   
  
"For what it's worth, thank you for talking to me. Clearly you have no reason to trust wizards with how you've been treated in the past."   
  
"And I haven't been given reason yet," Otto retorted. "You watch yourself, boy, I may just change my mind."   
  
Harry nodded, turning back toward where he'd last seen Tom as Otto disappeared back into his house. Unsurprisingly, Riddle had disappeared.   
  
"Coward," Harry muttered. He was surprised that Riddle could come out this far from the house, but clearly he'd been listening in on their conversation. He couldn't think as to what may have alerted him.   
  
Harry had been under the impression--mistakenly, apparently--that Riddle cared little for the affairs of the muggles in the surrounding area, but a great many things that Harry had once believed had been put into question today, so he supposed he should be keeping an open mind and not making any assumptions whatsoever about Tom. He did have an alarming tendency to prove them wildly incorrect, and he was tough to pin down on the best of days as it was.   
  
Yet again Tom proved how right he was to do so, falling in step with him as he made his way up the path to the house. "You've been prodding about in places you shouldn't," Tom observed.   
  
"And you've been lying to me."   
  
"I haven't lied. I merely gave you limited information and let your mind fill in the blanks," Riddle retorted.   
  
"You told me that no-one could find the property."   
  
"No, my orator told you that no-one could find the property. It's unplottable and has a variety of misdirection wards on it, that doesn't mean it's completely undiscoverable, especially to those who already know it's there."   
  
"Then why did the ministry lose track of it's location?"   
  
"I didn't want to be found," Tom said simply. "How would you have felt, to have been violently attacked and coming to not knowing who to trust, unable to grasp what had happened to you? You wouldn't want to let anyone near you either."   
  
"And that's changed."   
  
"Time can provide clarity to a great many things."   
  
"Clarity enough to let people onto the property to 'make offerings'?"   
  
"A misguided gesture, I assure you," Riddle drawled. "My influence over any current happenings is rather limited by circumstance, after all."   
  
"What happened to those people, Tom?"   
  
"Well, a number of them apparated away. It only took one surviving witness at one such time for them to wise up that apparating around my property is not...advisable."  
  
"And the rest?"   
  
"No-one comes onto my property that has not been invited, Harry," Riddle murmured, his voice soft and disturbingly sweet for what he was implying.   
  
"You killed them."   
  
"Kill is such a strong word, I merely...redirected them, occasionally off the cliff if I was feeling nice about it."   
  
"The police never found any remains." Harry felt cold all over, despite the constant heat radiating from Tom. What had he done? Who were these wizards, how many people had gone missing here who _weren't_ noticed by the local muggles? _Where were the bodies?_  
  
"Well they wouldn't, would they? Just like you, they're looking in all the wrong places, after all."   
  
"I've had enough of your cryptic words, Tom," Harry snapped.   
  
"Well that's unfortunate. You'll just have to learn to see the writing on the wall, I suppose," he dismissed. "I've no inclination to help you in this, Harry."   
  
"Don't you want them to stop coming here? You want to be left in peace in your own home, right?"  
  
"Now Harry," Tom tutted, lips curling in a wide, sharp-toothed smile, "whenever did I say that?"   
  
  



	12. Some Reassessment Required

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Listening: You Don't Know Me (Carlotta's Theme) by Eric Neveux

Harry walked alongside Riddle from his neighbor's house at an even pace, not a word passing further between them until they'd made it nearly all the way out of the woods. He stopped in the middle of the dirt path and turned to face him, unable to hold in his thoughts any longer. "How many people have you killed?"   
  
"Well that's not a very nice thing to ask someone."   
  
" _Tom."  
  
_ The specter regarded Harry patiently, smoke flowing lazily around him. He was calm, perfectly at ease with the situation before him--no, he'd been expecting this, hadn't he? He'd known that Harry would eventually discover his secrets, but he hadn't really gone to any great lengths to thwart him from these revelations. "You are so certain that you wish to know, aren't you?" he hummed. "In all fairness, I haven't been keeping track over the years so I can't give you an exact number."   
  
Harry felt like someone had dumped ice water over his head that had turned to a cold, oozing sludge partway down his neck. "Do you _want_ it to be known that you're doing this? Is that why I'm here?"  
  
"Oh no Harry, you've a much greater purpose. You simply haven't yet recognized your part in all of this. It will come, you needn't rush yourself," Tom soothed, reaching out and cupping Harry's chin in long, brittle fingers. Harry moved to smack his hand away reflexively but it hit solid flesh and held there. Harry stared in open shock. Tom smiled widely. "Are you starting to understand?" he questioned.  
  
"What _are_ you?" Harry demanded, aghast.   
  
Riddle let out a cold laugh that cut through the burning heat of his touch. "It's more a question of what I am _not,"_ Tom purred. As if on command, his solidity suddenly disappeared and Harry's hand dropped through his arm, scrabbling before him for something to grasp onto. Nails that were _quite_ sharp dug into the underside of Harry's chin and pulled, leaving ugly, bloodied scratches through his beard in their wake. Tom dragged him up by the chin until he could feel the heat of the breath on his face, practically absorb the warmth of soft lips brushing against his own as he spoke. "And my dear Harry, I am not something that you can predict, understand, or control. For all that you are an Auror you still haven't learned that some people _want_ to be the monster."   
  
"Did you do this to yourself?" the question fell from his lips without thought as the shock of the idea hit him. What could it possibly take for someone to manage to do this to themselves?  
  
"It was a matter of circumstance and necessity of the moment," Tom responded, the oil of his words floating on top of the bitterness beneath. It was still an old wound and Harry had just ripped off the scab with all the delicacy of a wrecking ball, leaving something raw and exposed underneath--something true that Tom was willing to reveal. "Part of this was something I wished for, part of it was something wrong with the magic within that very moment of passing between this world and another, and part of it was this place itself. I am not who or what I once was. I have become something more, something different. I am more myself than I ever was in life."  
  
Harry let out a surprised gasp as Riddle's free hand snaked up and caught his own, pulling it tight against his chest. "Can you feel that?" Tom whispered against Harry's lips. "Can you feel my heartbeat? What does it tell you?"  
  
"You're alive," Harry responded shakily. This was beyond disturbing but somehow he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Something buried deep in the back of his thoughts stirred at Riddle's touch as if awakening from a long slumber. It was a sickly, unacknowledged desire--he didn't know what had placed that seed there to begin with, but there was a heat to match Tom's own just beneath the surface of his thoughts that Harry was _definitely_ not prepared to acknowledge.   
  
"This situation is far more complex than you can grasp with your limitations, Harry. I suggest you wait until you've gathered enough understanding of both your circumstances and my own before you make any rash decisions. Show me that I can trust you," Tom urged, squeezing Harry's fingers tightly beneath his own. He let out a small, involuntary gasp that made Riddle's lips curl against his and his own heart stutter in his chest. "Or perhaps you're beginning to grasp some things a bit more than I give you credit for."  
  
For one breathless moment he felt Tom's lips close over his own in a slow, surprisingly soft kiss and then he was stepping back, Harry's hand still caught in his. "Come, your house elf has prepared a lunch for your return from the village that should not go to waste." Harry fumbled to put together a sensible thought as he automatically followed after when Tom pulled, leading him up through the gate and into the manor.   
  


* * *

  
Sitting at the dining room table and biting into a sandwich with Tom watching him was a very uncomfortable experience. Harry felt a bit dazed by it all, but as he picked at his meal his mind began racing through the new things he'd learned, categorizing and planning. His first thought was to find a way to leave to update Hermione on the situation. There were so many different things that needed to be addressed: the vanishing of an unknown quantity of people since Riddle's own disappearance, the 'followers' coming to the house, the broken statute with the townsfolk. Harry wondered darkly if he should start going over the lawn looking for buried bodies. Most immediate of all though, was what to do with the realization that Hermione's supposition had been correct--Riddle was no ghost, and he'd been preying on those who trespassed on the property.   
  
It seemed that Tom was waiting with a near-saintly patience, content to watch Harry eat his meal in nerve-wracking silence. It took some amount of time for Harry to get his thoughts in order once the numbness that had descended over him upon returning home had passed. Finally, the tense quiet was too much. "What are you waiting for?" Harry blurted, eyeing Riddle suspiciously.   
  
"The moment you leave."   
  
"Why?" Harry questioned, watching Riddle surreptitiously over his water glass.   
  
Riddle smirked at him. "Think about it, Harry. Any number of things could happen from here depending on what you do. Will you take this information to the Aurors and have them sniffing about on my property? Will you bring it to the Department of Mysteries or DRCMC? I do love messing with Ministry officials, I'm quite curious to see what sort of observations they'd make. Or are you going to bring your little friends in on it together to investigate? Ronald and Hermione, was it?"  
  
"Do you _want_ people to know about you?" Harry questioned, forcibly ignoring the way his stomach dropped when Riddle named his two closest friends.  
  
"Not necessarily, but it would certainly make things more exciting around here," Tom hummed. "Mind you, if they misstep on the property or cause any damage it won't go well. But it's always nice to have some fresh faces in the area. I wonder what will happen if you tell your father. He might even try to make you move back in with him or come here himself, which promises to be an interesting experience for everyone involved."   
  
"What's to say I won't just walk away and leave this place to rot?" Harry questioned.   
  
"Even I know just looking at you right now that you wouldn't do that, Harry," Tom chuckled. "No, you couldn't bring yourself to. There's too many things here that have caught your interest. And besides--if no-one stays, who's to prevent anyone from trespassing onto the property and causing a disturbance?"   
  
"You're intent on keeping me here with the threat of enacting violence on others, then," Harry said bitterly.   
  
"Oh no, I don't need violence to do that. Like I said before, this house has already sunk its teeth into you; you are now its keeper and mine, for better or for worse."   
  
"I could burn this place to the ground."   
  
"Are you sure that there wouldn't be unforeseen consequences to that? What happens, Harry, when you cut the tether between me and this place?"

Harry couldn't look into Riddle's molten eyes and consider it, he knew that his immediate impulse to be reckless and fly by the seat of his pants would not result in anything good in this situation.   
  
"Why are you warning me? What benefit does it have to you?"   
  
"Have I not always provided a voice of reason and advisement whenever you had a problem, Harry? That doesn't cease simply because you are beginning to learn about me and about this place. I am not your enemy."  
  
"Aren't you?"   
  
"You can choose to see me that way, I suppose," Tom acknowledged, gliding around the table at a leisurely pace, "this isn't a battle for you to win, though. I'm not something that you can fight by the means currently at your disposal. And in all seriousness, what do you stand to gain by picking a fight with me? We both want something similar, Harry."  
  
"I doubt that," Harry growled under his breath. "You want a toy to play with. I just want to feel safe in the comfort of my own home."   
  
"I don't think you know what you want, Harry," Tom murmured, his tone almost pitying though his eyes reflected no such emotion. "It will come to you eventually, as all things do. But I can tell that you don't want surety and safety, you don't want comfort. You like things that provide a challenge that you can rise to meet, not a quiet, cozy home to provide a false sense of security." Silence stretched between them as Harry absorbed Riddle's words. Tom passed him by and lightly brushed a hand over his shoulder. "Think on it. Don't be brash and careless. After all, many lives hang in the balance."   
  


* * *

  
Harry didn't act until much later that night. His hesitance wasn't out of any misplaced trust in Tom's advisement, but the specter's words had struck a chord with him by pointing out the obvious--that Harry really didn't have any solid grasp on the details of this situation beyond what was visible on the surface, and he was likely to experience some significant backlash if he did anything without thinking. This place was like a minefield, and Tom himself the trigger that would blow it all to pieces if he made just one wrong move.   
  
Even as he waited Harry knew ultimately what he would do. It wasn't necessarily the rightful, law-abiding approach that an Auror _should_ take in this situation, but Harry supposed that there were some benefits to dipping his feet into corruption. The end justified the means after all, didn't it? He wasn't sure what 'end' he was aiming for if any, but he was certain that he trusted Hermione and Ron with what he'd learned far more than he trusted the bureaucracy of the Ministry, which led to him making a house call to Mossy Creek well into the evening. He made his way over by broom from out in the fields of Canesworth at dusk, keen to avoid being misdirected or any other sort of 'coincidental' happenstance that might prevent him from leaving. It was a quiet ride over, but Harry could feel anxiety stirring in his gut the whole way.   
  
He touched down just off from the front porch of the small cottage. Ron must have seen his arrival from one of the windows, as he was soon coming down the steps to greet him. "You're here late, mate! What's going on?"   
  
"I need to talk with you and Hermione. It's about Riddle."   
  
Ron's cheer melted away into seriousness. "Something happened then?"   
  
"More like a lot of things happened at once and I'm not sure where to even start with addressing it all. I know it's late, but..."   
  
"We're always here to help," Ron cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. "Come on in, Hermione should still be up."   
  
Harry trudged in, resting his broom against the wall next to the front door and _scourgifying_ the dirt off his shoes at the entry. Hermione took one look at his expression when he followed Ron into the kitchen and said, "Did you keep a record like I suggested?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I've been combining records with Riddle's case file, so I brought that instead, but you're right--I think I do need to keep a daily record. Things have just gotten exponentially more complicated."  
  
"Complicated how?"   
  
"Well, apparently the statute's been broken in Canesworth for over fifty years at least, so there's that, and also the fact that apparently there are people I can't really describe as anything but 'fanatics' according to the local muggle who lives nearest the house, who come by consistently to leave 'offerings' by the gate, if they can make it up that far. Apparently sometimes they tend to 'disappear' in the woods, and if they try to deface the property or do something Riddle doesn't like, they tend to 'disappear' right off the cliff out back. The local barman swears that there's been at least five 'strange folks' who have come through town that he knows of who just went up towards the house and never came back. I would have said at first that they might've taken a route away that avoided the muggles, but with the strange way apparition works and the rather...violent implications Riddle suggested about how he feels regarding their presence, I think we're looking at at _least_ five more missing persons cases that could be accounted for by Riddle alone. I'm wondering whether I should borrow one of the body-sniffer crups from the search and rescue team at this rate. There are bodies _somewhere_ on the property. The problem is, I don't know how the DMLE will react if I bring this to them. They might take more extreme measures, and Riddle is _definitely_ capable of violence."  
  
"That's...damn, that's a lot," Ron muttered, shaking his head. "The whole bloody village knows?"   
  
"I don't know if the whole village knows about wizards, but the implication from both my elderly neighbor and the local barkeep was that everyone is aware that the manor is haunted and actively avoids certain surrounding areas at certain times in response. My neighbor, Otto, apparently has known about wizards since he was a boy and actively tried to run me off his property because he thought I was 'one of the ones that comes through now and then trying to go up to the manor'. Riddle apparently was adamantly against the establishment of the statute and proceeded to break it wherever he could with the local muggle populace. That's the thing though--if these people have known for _decades_ then an _obliviation_ would mentally destroy them, and you know that the Ministry wouldn't give two shits about doing that."   
  
Hermione took a deep, slow breath, releasing it with forced calm. "Alright. Let's break this down into pieces. Clearly you spoke to your muggle neighbor and confirmed he knew about wizards. What did he tell you?"   
  
Harry relayed the conversation back as accurately as he could manage, Hermione nodding along as she listened, pausing only once to summon parchment and a pen, then continuing to make careful notations as he spoke. Ron cut him off with a sharp exclamation at Harry relaying that the muggle had pulled a gun on him, but Hermione interrupted with a short, "Oh please Ronald clearly he's alright, he didn't limp in here bleeding profusely. Harry, continue your story." She stopped him at the point where he indicated that Otto alerted him to Tom's presence. "So they can see him," she observed.   
  
"Yes, why?" Harry questioned.   
  
"Muggles have all sorts of ghost stories, but they usually can't see the ghosts themselves unless they have some amount of magical sensitivity--say that they would have been considered to have been squibs if they'd been born to a wizarding family, for example. There hasn't been a lot of study of magical capacity of any kind within muggles because it's generally assumed that they have none whatsoever, but I've read a couple papers implying that it's more of a spectrum of magical capacity than we generally acknowledge. It's possible Riddle may have picked up on that many years ago, if he told this man about us. That's just one possible reason, but Riddle being able to maintain a physical presence that even muggles can see will tell us a bit about what type of being he is, so an important thing to learn as soon as possible is if the other locals can see him too."   
  
"Speaking of that--he's definitely not a ghost. I don't think he fits in the category of spirit at all, actually," Harry admitted. "Not only has he shown the possibility of being able to show himself to muggles, and the ability to physically interact with his surroundings--he can maintain physical manifestation now."   
  
Hermione blinked owlishly. "How so?"   
  
"He spoke to me on the way up to the house--he acknowledged that some of these fanatics that had latched onto his politics were aware of the manor's location, and confirmed that he'd killed any who defaced or disrespected his property. Apparently he didn't take well to a number of them trespassing, and I'm guessing any attempts to enter the house if they made it past the gate were um, violently deflected. But he grabbed me," Harry explained, tilting his head up and gesturing. "Here."   
  
Hermione leaned in, looking carefully at his neck and chin. "Oh my goodness Harry, you've got a burn and all sorts of scrapes! Hold on, I think we might have some salve for that," she exclaimed, moving to rush from the room to get it.  
  
"It's alright, I already cleaned the cuts and the burn is really minor. But yeah," Harry continued, awkwardly fumbling into the retelling of the next part. He didn't know why this was so difficult, he should be able to report this as if it were any other incident at work but it seemed uncomfortably personal.   
  
Hermione stopped him mid-explanation, finally, and asked calmly, "Ronald, do you think you could go get a book for me from upstairs? It's called 'An Abbreviated Classification of Spirits and Beings."  
  
Ron paused as if about to protest, then glanced between the two of them and said, "Right. I'll uh. Go get that." With that he quietly excused himself, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.   
  
"Harry, why don't you sit down?" Hermione suggested gently. "You've been pacing about this whole time and you clearly haven't been able to relax since this happened."   
  
Reluctantly, Harry caved to her suggestion and dropped into a chair at the table. He hadn't realized how much tension he'd been holding onto until Hermione carefully reached out and peeled his fingers open from where they'd clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. She leaned against the edge of the table beside him, holding his hand and rubbing a gentle circle on the back of it with her thumb. "Harry, something clearly happened between yourself and Riddle that goes beyond your comfort level to talk about. Take as much time as you need--Ronald definitely isn't going to be finding that book, I left it at work--but we should talk about this. Especially if he's doing things like this to you," Hermione said, looking at his neck concernedly.   
  
Harry forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, trying to work a little bit of the tension from his body by relaxing in his seat. It was difficult, but after a few minutes he felt a little bit more collected--enough that he could relay to Hermione what he'd experienced. "It's been little things, generally. Riddle's--flirtatious, I guess is the best word for it. He's usually rather subtle about it but sometimes there's just...little bits of contact, here and there. A touch on the shoulder, brushing past me when speaking, things like that. But earlier today he grabbed me like this and well--he grabbed my hand and held it to his chest and I could _feel a heartbeat._ He basically told me that in some sense something got botched when he 'died' and he became something else, but is somehow still alive in this state. He sees himself as a monster--he said he _prefers_ himself that way. And then he kissed me."   
  
"I was right," Hermione breathed, leaning back and staring off into the distance momentarily. "This is going to be that much more difficult then. But first off," Hermione cut herself off and reached forward, wrapping Harry in a tight hug. "I'm sorry I haven't been checking in with you often about this. I really should have been, you're in a dangerous and frankly terrifying situation. I've been too caught up in everything and I think that this fell through the cracks when I should have been paying much more attention. I'm going to be much more involved from now on."  
  
Harry sat ramrod straight in her arms, momentarily unsure how to react before it occurred to him to hug her back. He felt a bit jittery. There was something a bit terrifying in acknowledging all of this, but it was also strangely freeing. "It's alright. Honestly, I haven't been as open with you about everything as I could have been. It's just...difficult to talk about that um, particular aspect of all this," Harry admitted, hoping that his face wasn't getting as red as the heat in his skin suggested.   
  
"Have you been to the hospital since that last time, made sure you're continuing to have no ill health effects from exposure?"   
  
"Um no, I haven't."   
  
"Then I really think you should. You should be doing that regularly, especially now that we have confirmation that he's not a spirit. Anything with a heartbeat wouldn't classify as a spirit, certainly, but I think that this may be a situation where this being falls rather in between. There are aspects of him that could classify as spiritual in some sense, and I'd be very interested to see how he'd react to say, an exorcism attempt but considering the volatility of this it isn't wise to risk that just yet."  
  
"Best case scenario he'd laugh at us," Harry chuckled humorlessly. "Worst case scenario he kills anyone present. I have no doubt he's capable of it, though there haven't been any bodies...yet."   
  
"So this is going to be a difficult thing to discuss," Hermione began, "but inter-species sexual encounters between semi-humanoids and wix _do_ happen--"   
  
"Woah, woah, Hermione don't you think that's um, jumping to conclusions here?" Harry spluttered out, "it's just his personality to be like that, it doesn't mean anything--"   
  
"Harry," Hermione said gently, "are you so certain about that? A lot of what you've told me--and a lot of the things in your notes--suggest that he's highly fixated on you. And now he's making more assertive overtures, coupled with some amount of violence. You are going to need to set decisive boundaries if this is going to stop. How are you going to react if he tries to escalate? I know you're not interested in the same gender but my concern is that Riddle may not care about what does or doesn't interest you--"  
  
"Right," Harry agreed hurriedly, his face beet red. "Can we um, talk about this another time, Hermione?"   
  
Hermione paused, then focused in on him intently, her expression quickly shifting from scrutinizing to surprised to worried. "Oh, Harry," she murmured, squeezing his hand, "I didn't realize, what with Ginny and Cho."   
  
"Yeah um, neither did I, really," Harry muttered. "Not until uh...very recently, anyway." Recently as in about eight hours prior to this, Harry thought to himself distantly.   
  
"You know you can talk to me about anything, right Harry?" Hermione assured him gently, "Whether it's related to Riddle or not, I'm here and I'll always support you. Ron and I would go to hell and back for you."   
  
Harry gave a feeble smile in response. "Yeah, this is all...pretty new," Harry admitted. "I mean, I knew I was attracted to women, and like...I know it's not _bad_ to be attracted to more than just um, girls and whatnot, I mean hell, two of my dad's closest friends are queer men, and with my own gender stuff I know my parents won't judge I just...never really considered it for myself. Like, I've casually noted that 'oh, that guy's fit' and whatever but I never really thought about myself and...other guys. I mean, I may have _thought_ about it I mean everyone's thought about it like at least once right, but I never thought about actually _being_ with a man or that any guy would ever find _me_ to be...well, attractive, I guess."

The words were stumbling and awkward, and it was the first time Harry had really given it more than a passing thought but now that he was saying it out loud it was suddenly painfully obvious. He'd been dancing around acknowledging this for a very long, long time, and looking back he could recognize some things about his past feelings that really put things in perspective...his awkward friendship with Cedric Diggory that was definitely complicated by a rather large crush when they were in school, the rather alarming observations he could now make about Malfoy's obsessively hateful behavior suddenly shifting to harried, redfaced avoidance in sixth year...how he couldn't seem to spend enough time with the handsome young mentor who'd been assigned to him when he was a trainee auror...  
  
"Wow," Harry said, staring blankly at the table next to Hermione, lost in his own thoughts. "I've been really thick about this for...a long while."  
  
"Harry, you shouldn't beat yourself up over this. Coming to terms with your sexuality can be a difficult process and from what I hear everyone has a different experience with that. I have to admit though, I'm not the best resource for information about these things. I'm a straight cisgender woman, my knowledge on the subject of being LGBT is always going to be from an outside perspective looking in. Sure, I can look up any number of resources for you--there's tons of excellent muggle literature on the subject that I bet would be very helpful--but I think that the wisest thing you could do would be to speak to your godfather and his partner. I think that both Luna and Ginny might be good resources too, and--"   
  
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry interrupted, "but I'm not sure I want to tell anyone about this...yet. I don't even really have all of this parsed out in my head yet, I'm still trying to work around thinking it over myself. I'm not...yeah. I'm definitely not ready to talk this over with other people."   
  
"Oh." Hermione blinked. "Well, when you do feel comfortable discussing it--or even just asking questions, you know, for education's sake or whatever--I think you should talk with Sirius and Remus. Considering Remus's condition they might be uniquely qualified to give you some advice."   
  
"Considering his condition?"   
  
"Lycanthropy, Harry. Remus is legally categorized as a 'beast' by the DRCMC." Hermione paused, looking at him carefully. "It was Riddle, that sparked this all. Wasn't it?"  
  
Harry froze. "He's a killer, Hermione. And he's quite aware of it."   
  
"Yes," Hermione agreed, "He has killed people, probably. And from what you've told me he seems to like to imply that he did it for kicks, but I think there's more to it than that. Riddle is...well, he's shifty, and he's acknowledged that he's lied to you multiple times, but from what I gather of his personality he doesn't seem like someone who does things on a whim all that often, there's always meaning behind it. MY interest in this is that these 'fanatics' who are coming onto his property may be remnants...or an offshoot, even, of the following that Riddle had garnered in life. You said yourself that similar men wearing skull masks were seen in the vision you had written about here," Hermione said, flipping through the file until she found the entry she was looking for. "Yes, there it is! That they were guarding the perimeter and mingling with guests at the party. They were clearly there for a purpose. Now imagine that this group had something to do with Riddle's death, though Otto--it was Otto, wasn't it? Well, that muggle fellow said that they seem to venerate him and be obsessed with getting up to the property, but he may be reacting violently to their presence on the land as a result of whatever happened, or he may actually feel that he is defending himself against an enemy. You shouldn't always take things at face value with beings, they usually tend to be more complex than they present themselves as. Riddle is sentient and communicative, I'm sure that if we press him in the right way then we'll get to the bottom of this. As upsetting as the past day has been for you, we've seen that the result of you confronting him with your discoveries is in part that he opens up--but we've also seen that he will throw things he thinks will frighten or upset you in your face to try and get you to back off, and that he is careful with what he shares and he allows you to make your own assumptions rather than giving you the plain truth. I don't think he wants Aurors or Unspeakables on the property, though he floated the idea. He's reluctant to have anyone looking into his past, he's very protective of himself and his home."   
  
"I don't think he was messing about when he implied he might react violently to them," Harry warned.   
  
"Oh, I don't think he was messing about either--which is why I think that we should keep the details of this situation between a limited number of people. Our goal here is to limit potential casualties when approaching a passive malevolent being that could possibly become actively volatile if provoked. We would go by the same policy in the DRCMC if this were to come about. Actually, if I'd been the one to stumble into this situation I probably would have reached out to an Auror I trusted to remain discrete to help find any potential victims and identify them--and it probably would have been you or your father that I would have requested aid from."  
  
"We can't bring my dad in on this," Harry blurted, "He's the head of department, he'd be beyond furious if we tried to go off books with this--"  
  
"Harry, isn't your investigation into Riddle technically already considered to be not entirely on record, considering the suppositions you made about a potential Ministry conspiracy involved in his death?" Hermione questioned.   
  
"Well--that's different," Harry stumbled.   
  
"Is it really? Your father knows the seriousness of the situation in that regard, who's to say that he wouldn't recognize the importance of limiting this information from getting into the wrong hands when there's still a larger potential conspiracy to investigate? I think that you're just being stubborn about it more because he's your father and less because you think he'd actually take action with the DMLE in a way that might put anyone in danger."  
  
Harry purposefully didn't meet Hermione's eyes, looking off to the side. "I don't think we should bring this to him until we've got something more comprehensive to show for it."   
  
Hermione sighed. "I won't push you on it Harry, but you could really benefit from getting your father, Sirius, and Remus involved in this. They all have unique skill sets that could be instrumental in helping to solve the mysteries around Riddle and help us understand how he came to be in this situation--as well as if there's anything we can do to make that situation better for everyone involved, both Riddle and the muggle villagers around him. Speaking of which, I think that you should try and foster a positive relationship with Otto, Harper, and any other villagers who you can. If the whole village is currently aware of wizards on some level, it's best that we make sure we're seen as a positive force. If we're lucky, the Ministry won't need to find out about the statute being broken there--it might even be possible for you to coexist openly, if you're careful about it."  
  
"Shouldn't we be doing something about it though? There's still the possibility that it might bleed out from this area? It's barely large enough to constitute a village as it is, but a hundred people knowing about wizards? That's a lot."  
  
"I think we should assess the situation more closely and figure out what the damage is before we take any decisive action in that regard," Hermione hummed, tapping her pen against her lips thoughtfully. "If it's only a select few people who generally are close-lipped about it? Then there's little risk. Realistically speaking, I can't really form an opinion about the statute's establishment itself--my knowledge of that time period is very limited, but I can imagine there's a lot that we don't know about what was actually happening at the time. That being said, I know how I personally feel about how the statute affects me--I can't be honest about my profession or my life with anyone except my most immediate family and that has actively isolated me from the lot of them. I can't use magic to help any of them for fear of them finding out, even if they're in difficult situations. Well--I have bent the rules once or twice, but I'm sure I'm not the only person to do so. I wonder at what led Riddle to be anti-statute...if we could find that out, we might be able to get a handle on this situation--especially if he has any kind of psychological influence over these muggles. You said that Otto implied that others had tried to obliviate him before but it 'didn't stick'. That could be due to either continued exposure to magical events triggering his memories, or it could be a direct result of Riddle's presence."   
  
"I've got a lot of different avenues to explore," Harry sighed.   
  
" _We_ most certainly do," Hermione asserted. "Don't forget that you're not alone in this, Harry. We'll be working together with you to solve this case. If need be, I'll find an Unspeakable that we can consult alongside my resources at the DRCMC. That being said, I'm going to gather some literature for you on inter-species relationships and some muggle LGBT resources--maybe some wizarding, too, if I can find anything concrete. I still think you should talk to Remus and Sirius about this, but Harry--if Riddle even hints at doing anything untoward to you, you promise me you'll get out of there immediately, alright?"  
  
"I can protect myself, Hermione. But no--I'd get out of there immediately if things leaned in that direction."   
  
"I don't doubt your ability to protect yourself, but Riddle is a great unknown at the moment and there _are_ beings out there who prey on wix. My best guess right now is that his connection to you is somewhat parasitic, so we need to be taking every precaution that we can that no harm comes to you from this--and that he doesn't gain anything that's bad for you or anyone else from that connection."   
  
Harry nodded sullenly in agreement, just as Ron poked his head back through the kitchen doorway. "Is it alright for me to come back yet?"   
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes Ronald, I think we're all set here."   
  
"Right. And Harry--if you need to, y'know, chat about anything with me, I'm here for you mate," Ron assured. "Doesn't matter what it is." Hermione just looked at him, crossing her arms. Ron quailed for a moment under her gaze, then cracked. "Alright, I came down to say I couldn't find the book and caught the tail end of the conversation about your sexuality before I scarpered off to give you some privacy," Ron admitted. "But seriously, mate. I don't judge on that shite, we've known Seamus and Dean for ages and they're great blokes," he blustered on, "and Lupin and Sirius too. Just let me know if you need anything, you've always got me and Hermione looking out for you, alright?"   
  
Harry was pretty sure that he was as red-faced as Ron currently was, but he managed to choke out a strangled, "Thanks, Ron."   
  
Ron gave an awkward nod of his head and said, "Well, that aside did we figure out what we're doing next?"  
  
"I'll fill you in on what needs to be shared later," Hermione dismissed, "some things are best kept private for now and you WILL be telling me everything you heard tonight. That being said, I think Harry's had a very long day and could do with some rest. We can transfigure the couch so you can stay the night here for as long as you need, Harry, if you need some time away from the manor."   
  
Harry considered it momentarily, then shook his head. "I think if I put off facing this any longer it might have a bad impact on the case." Admittedly that was true, but the reality of it was that Harry knew that the longer he put off confronting Riddle, the more difficult of a task it would become. Of course he was scared. There were so many unknowns at Blackbarrow, but Harry had never been one to run from his problems. 


	13. A Difficult Conversation

Harry was not expecting it to be difficult to find Tom upon returning to Blackbarrow in the early hours of the morning. As he pulled his broom to a hover over the village, slowly gliding around the hillside up toward the manor, he saw a glint off in the distance. The solitary light shining from the manor's attic room was like a signal flare in the night, pointing the way to home. The cold chill of frosted grass dusted against his ankles as he walked up the overgrown lawn to the house, single-mindedly focused on one thing: he needed to set hard boundaries with the being that shared this place with him. Determined, Harry didn't pause to take off his coat or boots, making his way quickly up several flights of stairs, not pausing when Pella greeted him sleepily on the second floor with obvious curiosity as to what he was doing out and about so late, but he wasn't fast enough. The attic was empty of any presence save old trunks and unused furniture that had long since seen better days. An unlit candle sat on the edge of the topmost windowsill, the wax drips down its side still hot and slick to the touch. A chair sat not far from it, pulled up to give the one seated in it a wide overarching view of the town and the entrance to the manor. Had Riddle been sitting here long? Had he been waiting for his return?

He must have just missed him.   
  
Harry cursed under his breath. "Going to go and be difficult about this, are we?" he grumbled, turning about sharply and heading back down the stairs. He searched every floor from top to bottom, but no matter where he looked, Riddle did not reappear. Strangely, the longer that Harry searched, the more of the house it seemed he had left to look through. Hallways seemed longer, with several more rooms than he could recall them having--one doorway even opened onto a straight drop down from the third floor to the lawn outside. Another room on the first floor opened onto the potions lab, which Harry knew _quite_ well should be located on the second floor. True to his previous assumption, when he walked into the room, closed the door and reopened it, he found himself looking out upon another winding hallway, different from where he'd just been. "Alright, this is getting ridiculous," he announced, and after some further extended searching, managed to find the stairwell back down to the first floor. 

Growing tired of this game, Harry stumbled into the kitchen and dropped into the chair by the fireplace that Pella had clearly placed for him in anticipation. He could already smell something bubbling in the hearth and Pella entered not long after he'd settled in, carrying a bowl that was nearly larger than her over to the countertop, pulling up a small stool and setting about transferring dough that had been set to proof overnight into bread pans for baking.   
  
"'Where was you being? Pella looked all over for you at breakfast time and you was nowhere to be found," the house elf inquired, glancing up from her work as he shrugged off his coat and draped his scarf carelessly over the back of the chair.   
  
"What do you mean, it's been an hour at...most," Harry trailed off, glancing out the kitchen window to where heavy clouds dimmed a sun that was already high above the horizon. "That's not right," he muttered to himself. "I was looking for Riddle."   
  
"Ah," Pella nodded. "He is a hard one to pin down, he is. Would Harry Potter like Pella to heat up the food she cooked for breakfast?"   
  
Admittedly, he was feeling hungrier than he'd realized. The smell of soup bubbling over the fire was making his stomach growl. "That sounds amazing," Harry agreed, scooting the chair a bit closer to the fire. "You haven't happened to see Riddle around anywhere, have you?"   
  
"I is not seeing him anywheres," Pella responded, shaking her head. "What mischief is he up to now that has you being so frazzled?"   
  
Harry stiffened momentarily, wondering at what was wise to share and what wasn't. He didn't want to worry the young elf, but she and Yobbie did have a right to know just what sort of creature they were sharing a home with, didn't they? He looked sullenly down at the floor, then took a deep breath, preparing himself. "I found out a bit more about Tom. Things that make me...reconsider how safe it is here."   
  
"Is you wanting to leave?" Pella questioned.   
  
"No," Harry responded immediately. This assertion came coupled with the realization that despite everything, he still wasn't ready to give up yet. If anything he felt like the need for him to stay was that much more urgent--lives could be at risk, lives other than his own. Still, Pella and Yobbie deserved to be aware of everything going on as much as he did. "I want to talk to both you and Yobbie about this. You both deserve to know what we're up against."   
  
"You is not gearing up to kick Pella and Yobbie out, is you?" Pella questioned, clutching fistfuls of her skirts in alarm.   
  
"No, no," Harry reassured hurriedly, "I would never leave you with nowhere to go, I'm just...concerned for your safety."  
  
"You is saying that this is Pella and Yobbie's home! You is promising to share this place and we is sharing it!" Pella retorted with surprising ferocity. "Harry Potter is foolish to worry about the safety of a house elf, we is quite able to take care of ourselves! We is knowing when somewhere is too dangerous to be. You should be trusting us on this much."  
  
Feeling oddly chastized, Harry settled a bit more into his seat as Pella let out a small huff of irritation and set about pouring a cup of coffee for him. As much as she was clearly alarmed at the thought of having to leave for any reason, her concern had faded significantly by the time she was pressing a mug into his chilled fingers. "Yobbie and Pella is both knowing that the ghost is being dangerous. Mr. Riddle is not like any ghost Pella is ever seeing before. Yobbie says Mr. Riddle is not being a ghost at all."  
  
"He's not a ghost," Harry acknowledged, staring down into his coffee mug and hoping he'd find some answer to his difficulties there. None was forthcoming. "He's some kind of being. I spoke to a Ministry friend of mine who works with magical creatures, she said he's most likely an unclassified dark being. He...made it known to me yesterday that he's killed before."   
  
Pella stilled beside him. "Pella can see why you is scared," she said quietly. "People is always being scared when faced with something they don't understand. And wizards is being so very keen to understand everything."  
  
"That doesn't scare you?"   
  
"Of course it does," Pella responded, "but this is Pella's home and Pella will fight hard to keep it no matter how scary. You isn't planning to leave, knowing this, is you?"  
  
"No, I wasn't going to leave," Harry agreed. He could practically feel the call of this place in his bones. Something powerful was inextricably drawing him to this place, back to Tom Riddle. He wondered if the house elves could feel it, were affected by it too.   
  
"Good," Pella said simply, "Pella is not planning to leave either." With that said, Pella finished clearing up and left the bread pans out on the counter for their last proof. "Pella is going to clean one of the rooms upstairs. Let Pella know when you is needing anything else. I will be letting you know if I is seeing Mr. Riddle anywheres."  
  
"Thanks, Pella." Harry took a small sip of his coffee as she left him to his own devices, slowly forcing himself to relax. If Riddle wanted to play cat and mouse he was ready to play. He'd catch him eventually.   
  
Harry worked his way through one cup of coffee and had moved on to his second before Pella returned with his uneaten breakfast. She was gone as quickly as she'd reappeared, and Harry was left to his own devices. He found himself staring out the kitchen window once more, still trying to put together just how much time he'd lost searching the house. It had felt like no time at all had passed as he wandered the halls, searching for Riddle--speaking of which, he caught a glimpse of a passing figure momentarily blocking his view.   
  
"Of course he's been outside this whole time, that prat," Harry muttered to himself, abandoning his late breakfast and traipsing to the doorway onto the back porch. Sure enough there was Tom, leaning delicately against the porch railing, gaze focused on the distant ocean past the cliffs. His body seemed to blend into the light haze of fog rising up through the woods, not entirely translucent but far more immaterial than Harry had seen him in some time.   
  
"You've returned," Riddle observed, not bothering to turn and face him.   
  
"A while ago, yeah," Harry agreed. "We need to talk, Riddle."   
  
"I did think we were past formalities," he hummed. "So, what is the verdict? Are you going to have the ministry storm the place? Attempt an exorcism?" Riddle clearly got some amusement out of that idea, judging by the wry smile on his lips.   
  
"Hard to exorcise something that isn't dead," Harry noted, "but no. We're going to take our time with this and do it properly, Riddle. You already know I'm not going to unnecessarily risk the lives of others and go into this half-cocked."   
  
"I was of the understanding that that was your regular way of doing things," Tom noted.   
  
"Well then you thought wrong."   
  
"Ah. You elected to go to your friends, then."   
  
"One of whom is a creature specialist," Harry noted. "She had some observations to make about you."   
  
"Oh?"   
  
"You're some kind of being, for one. That, and that you're a parasite."   
  
Riddle quirked an eyebrow at that. "I would prefer to consider this symbiotic."   
  
"Wouldn't that suggest that I was actually getting something out of this arrangement?"   
  
"You are though," Tom noted, "you have garnered a home, an experienced advisor, and good company."   
  
"I wouldn't call a murderer good company. And I could have this place with or without you in it."  
  
"That's not true, Harry," Riddle murmured. "I am connected to this place and it to me. You cannot have one without the other."   
  
"For now, yeah," Harry agreed, "which is why we need to talk about how you're treating people who come through here--and how you've been treating me," he added before he could chicken out from addressing it.   
  
"The locals have nothing to fear from me."   
  
"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean you don't terrify them."  
  
"I keep them safe," Riddle retorted. "This land is protected because of me."   
  
"Is that what you think you're doing, by killing the wizards who come here? Keeping them safe?"   
  
"Do you disagree with me on that?" Tom questioned, finally turning to face Harry.   
  
"Yes, obviously! People don't need to die here! We need to coexist peacefully with the people in this area and we can't do that if you're consistently terrifying them."   
  
"That was very much my point when I came to live here," Tom agreed, "and regardless of your support for the statute, I will continue to exist alongside these muggles."   
  
"Whether I agree or disagree with the statute isn't the point here. It's the law, Tom, and it's for their own protection."   
  
"Is it really, though?" he questioned, "Do you not have a moral obligation to fight back against laws that are unjust? Who is really being protected when you send Aurors to sweep through the village _obliviating_ everyone they can find?"  
  
Harry opened his mouth to retort, then hesitated. Riddle's eyes narrowed.  
  
"There's a reason that you didn't tell the DMLE about our muggle neighbor," he observed.   
  
"I could still."   
  
"No, you wouldn't. You know the risks of _obliviating_ the elderly. You know that your colleagues wouldn't care what the consequences are." Harry couldn't think of a proper retort to that, and Riddle clearly reveled in his angry silence. "Does it do such great damage for a few muggles to know of us? They can't do anything about our presence and no-one in the world at large would believe them if they tried to speak of it."   
  
"It does if those muggles end up living in fear of us," Harry responded.   
  
"Well then, all the more reason for you to make nice with our neighbors," Tom purred. "There are more ways to resolve such things than the Ministry would have you believe."  
  
"It's not going to be resolved if you keep 'disappearing' whatever wix come sniffing about in the direction of the house," Harry noted.   
  
"Well," Tom hummed, "there are some things that cannot be avoided. You do not know these people as I do, Harry."   
  
"Do you know them, really, if you haven't kept track of who or how many you've killed?" Harry questioned.   
  
"I don't need to know who they are to understand what has become of the teachings I once espoused. My words have been warped and cherry-picked and these men who come to fawn over me don't recognize the change."   
  
"Have you considered, I don't know--speaking to them, maybe? Something that doesn't involve violence? How are they ever going to change or truly understand what you'd been trying to do if you keep driving them away?"   
  
"You don't understand, Harry. You don't know these people."   
  
"Then _help me_ understand," Harry urged.   
  
"You will see when they come," Riddle dismissed. "But fine, I'll agree for now. The next time one comes, I won't kill them--unless they come up to the house. All bets are off if they lay a finger on my property, or if they've done any harm to any of the local muggles."   
  
"You seem to care a lot about this village," Harry observed.   
  
"Of course I do," Tom sniffed. "They're mine. Therefore, they are my responsibility."   
  
"That's..." Harry paused. "You can't own people, Tom."   
  
Riddle let out an amused huff. "Think what you like. But they wouldn't be able to protect themselves without me here."  
  
"They also probably wouldn't be at risk if you weren't here," Harry observed. Tom leaned against the patio railing, looking away from him. Clearly that thought displeased him.   
  
"They'd be ignorant if I weren't here, and ignorance can put you just as much at risk," he refuted.   
  
"Why are you so insistent about this?"   
  
"I exist in part because of the statute, did you know that?" Tom murmured.   
  
"What do you mean?" Harry questioned, leaning against the rail next to Riddle. By all record Riddle had claimed halfblood status, but there was nothing to back it up on paper and Harry could find no records of his extended family.   
  
"My mother was a witch," said Tom. "She wasn't a particularly gifted witch, but she was canny and manipulative. She was also dirt poor, uneducated and inbred. Her father encouraged her and her simpleton brother to throw rocks at the local muggles whenever they'd come near. Every once in a while someone would get too close and end up horribly cursed, likely by my grandfather. But just over the way there lived a very handsome muggle. He was rich, college-educated, he had the kind of life she could only dream of. So she poisoned him with amortentia and swept him away from his family, and fled with him to London. They were married, on paper at least. My father didn't really have much say in the matter, after all. He was lucky--she kept him under for two years before she got fanciful about it and deluded herself into thinking he'd still love her if she stopped dosing him, especially now that she had a baby. You would think 'oh of course he fled the moment that the potion wore off' but no. He stayed out of fear that she would track him down again and subject him to worse, should he leave. He didn't know that he could find recourse by reaching out to the Ministry, he didn't know that what she was doing was illegal in our world. Muggles are defenseless in their ignorance, Harry. If my father had known she was a witch, had known what she was capable of, he'd have never put himself in a situation where he was vulnerable to her wiles."   
  
Harry stared openly, despite himself. It made a terrible, terrible kind of sense why Riddle was so anti-statute, in light of this. "What happened to him?"   
  
"Oh, he died when I was fourteen. He still outlived her though, mercifully, so we had a few years uninterrupted. He always suffered complications from the amortentia though--it's not meant for long-term use."   
  
Harry almost reached out to Tom--he said it so very casually in such a matter-of-fact tone, devoid of feeling, but it must have been painful to experience. He hesitated momentarily when Tom glanced over, looking at his outstretched hand in amusement. "Are you attempting to comfort me? How touching." He withdrew his hand, feeling rather embarrassed. "I don't need comfort, Harry," Riddle continued, "It's simply something that happened and something I wish to prevent in the future. I have...a great deal of anger towards my circumstances, but it feels very much to be in the distant past. I don't even resent her for it, though I probably should. She, too, was a product of circumstance. She saw an escape from her miserable life and she took the one chance she had at gaining some power over her life the second it was presented to her. I _do_ resent her for continuously assaulting my father for several years."   
  
"Why are you telling me all of this?" he questioned.   
  
"Because I know that despite yourself, you would understand in a way others I've known would not. In short I'm trusting you, as I have been in this entire endeavor," Tom responded, prodding Harry's shoulder. "I know you are not familiar with me enough to know, but that's very difficult for me to do. I am sticking my neck out for you in hopes that you won't fail me."   
  
"You've never shown any interest in exploring your case before," Harry murmured, frowning.   
  
"I didn't say I was talking about the case," Tom replied, smiling back in a way that told Harry nothing of what he was actually feeling. Harry had a strong feeling that that this wasn't the real reason he was imparting this to him in confidence. He doubted that Tom ever truly trusted anyone as far as he could throw them--then again, there was some small hint of desperation glimmering beneath that placid smile. Whatever the case, Tom intensely wanted Harry to believe that this was all there was to the matter. Still, beyond that desperation there was something strangely genuine in Riddle's trust. At the very least, Riddle seemed to trust that he knew Harry's character well enough to predict how he'd respond to such things.   
  
Could he possibly bring up the kiss now, in the face of this? Somehow it felt like it would spoil the moment. Harry knew that he himself had difficulty trusting others, but that was such a very new concept to him--a hard realization that had come with his appointment as a full-time Auror in the Practitioner Investigations Unit, harder still during his subsequent demotion to Cold Cases. Despite himself, Harry found himself returning Tom's smile almost shyly, even as another thought occurred to him.   
  
"Prove to me that you trust me then," Harry said, looking Tom in the eyes, "let me deal with any trespassers on the property."   
  
"That is a very tall request, you know," Tom murmured, looking for some motive behind Harry's request beyond the most obvious. "You're such a do-gooder," he teased, reaching out and cupping Harry's chin in his hand. Harry's breath caught in his throat at the searing warmth of his touch, and he went very, very still, frozen with the burning question of 'what will he do next?'   
  
Tom's thumb curved to slowly brush over Harry's barely-parted lips.   
  
"Will you?" Harry asked, feeling a sudden thick, nervous knot forming in his chest. There was so much riding on this. If the threat of violence from Tom was something that he could neutralize without Ministry interference, he may be able to investigate his case in peace. If he could solve this case it could trigger a massive upheaval both within the Ministry and within the general populace regarding the legitimacy of the Ministry's governance, if it was proven that Riddle was assassinated.   
  
Tom looked at him intently, as if to divine the legitimacy of Harry's words. "If you fail and they reach this property, I will resume taking care of the matter by my own means."   
  
Harry took a sharp, surprised breath. "You will," he breathed, reaching out and clasping Tom's free hand as tightly as he could in his, "I won't fail if you won't."  
  
"It's a promise," Tom purred, and Harry felt something snap sharply into place between them. Whatever it was felt solid and permanent.   
  
"What did you just do," Harry choked, suddenly alarmingly aware of how close Tom was to him, of the tightness of his grip on Harry's hand.   
  
"I simply sealed the bargain," Riddle hummed, leaning down to gently press his forehead to Harry. The heat that accompanied his closeness made him feel like the breath had been stolen from his lungs. He felt almost dizzy with the intensity of it, like he'd been lying in the heat of the sun before a bonfire for a bit too long and had begun to smolder. He felt like he wouldn't properly be able to stand if Tom weren't holding him up. "I look forward to you fulfilling your words, Harry."   
  
Harry felt his stomach drop just as Riddle leaned in and pressed his lips to his. He found himself clinging to Riddle's arm for balance as he swayed forward into him in a bewildering kiss. There was something terrifyingly close to anticipation in the way he was feeling, curled through with a thick undercurrent of the sharp pain of Riddle's touch. When Harry finally pulled away, gasping for breath that felt hot in his lungs. "Why? Why are you doing this?"  
  
"I was under the impression that the reason for that was fairly obvious," Tom responded, reaching out and brushing a strand of Harry's long, dark hair back behind his ear.   
  
"I don't think you're ever this direct with your intentions," Harry retorted, "You're too slippery for that."

Riddle laughed. "And yet I don't see you rejecting it," he noted.

"I'm not making any decision one way or another about that," Harry dismissed, pulling away from Riddle's touch. "You may be putting trust in me, but I need good reason to trust you and I haven't gotten one yet."

"Then I suppose I have an important task before me," Tom said, molten eyes focusing intently on Harry, "just as you do."

"I suppose you do," Harry agreed, "This...whatever this is," he said, motioning between them, "isn't going anywhere without that much, at least."

"Then we have an understanding," Tom acknowledged, inclining his head.   
  
"Of a sort," Harry hummed. "Oh and Tom?"   
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing, trying to ingratiate yourself to me like this. I know you're up to something."   
  
Tom threw his head back and laughed, leaning back against the porch rail and looking about as carefree as Harry has ever seen him. "I'm always up to something," he teased. For just a bare moment the scene before him flickered and softened, and Harry was struck with the image of Tom leaning back in that same spot on the rail, lighting a cigarette and tilting his head back, eyes closed as he enjoyed the peaceful warmth of a summer day, a sharp contrast to the chill of November. Dappled sunlight from the nearby trees played over him as he smirked back at Harry, deep brown eyes that had an edge of sharpness to them seeming to look right through him. There was something so very alive there, looking back. "Don't you think it's more fun that way?" Tom questioned, leaning toward Harry from the rail with a conspiratorial look in his eye that hinted at mischief.   
  
Harry found himself at a loss for words as Tom ran his fingers through wavy dark hair and brushed it carelessly out of his face, before turning to meet Harry's gaze with a hungry expression that sent a bolt of heat through him entirely different from the kind elicited by Riddle's touch. "Life's more exciting when there's someone willing to play games with you, after all," Riddle purred, even as the image shifted and faded, and Harry was left alone on the porch, looking out at the bleak, clouded horizon and feeling for all the world as if something important had shifted. He wasn't sure that it was a good thing, whatever it was, but change was coming. 


	14. Without Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening for this chapter:  
> Wolves by Phosphorescent  
> 

Harry wasn't sure whether to feel entirely reassured by his conversation with Riddle the previous day. Though they'd come to an agreement regarding how to respond to any interlopers on the property, something about it had seemed a little...off. He had a strong feeling that there had been more to that promise than he'd originally bargained for, but there was no real way to tell if that was the case. Setting that aside, Harry had plans for his return to work, and all of them were designed around keeping him out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (and out of his father's path) as much as physically possible.

The investigation into the circumstances of Riddle's death had been off to a slow start. Harry had managed to locate two of Riddle's former acquaintances in the process of his research, one of whom would be a captive audience to any questioning he had on the matter considering they were located in Azkaban. Unfortunately, Harry had to put in a legal request for visitation before he could speak to Erastus Carrow as he'd been imprisoned for attempted murder for over a decade and that would likely take at least another week or two to process. Josiah Mulciber however, was not in prison and Harry was eager to pay him a visit.  
  
The Mulciber Estate wasn't particularly well-to-do, but neither was it anything to sniff at. The house had clearly once been the height of style in its day and age, but the old Georgian manor seemed more like a brutal, imposing fortress with its high stone walls and sharp, jutting roof. The land around the house was barren and stretched like an ugly brown scar across an otherwise lovely hillside. Harry steeled himself and walked up the cobbled path to the front door, raising the knocker and slamming it down three times. There had been no response to the letter he sent ahead, but that didn't mean that the head of house would be unwilling to meet with him.   
  
After knocking a second time when some minutes passed with no response, the door cracked open to reveal a tired-faced woman, her hair shot through with streaks of gray and her clothing and expression as bland as the landscape surrounding the manor. "Yes?" she questioned, squinting at him uncertainly.   
  
"Auror Harry Potter, ma'am," he introduced himself, "I'm here to speak with Mr. Josiah Mulciber in regards to an old friend of his."   
  
She frowned. "I don't know that you'll manage to get much out of him, but you can come in. I'm Edith Mulciber, his daughter." She opened the door wider and stepped back, allowing Harry to enter. "He isn't always lucid, mind you."   
  
"Not lucid?"  
  
"You don't know, do you?" Edith murmured. "There was an accident many years ago that affected his mind. He's catatonic most of the time but sometimes he can respond to commands. He's not capable of much else."   
  
It was indeed quiet in the house. There was a stillness to the place and the scent of slow decay and old mothballs permeated the air. Harry crinkled his nose a bit at it and followed Edith up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway until they reached a locked door. Edith produced a key and the moment the door was opened Harry was hit with the musty smell of stale air and lavender that couldn't quite cover up the rot underneath.   
  
"Daddy, you have a visitor," Edith announced, stepping into the room and walking over to the bed.   
  
Josiah Mulciber stared straight ahead, unblinking and unresponsive. He had clearly once been a tall and imposing man, but age and illness had shrunken him into a thin, wasted husk with sunken cheeks and an empty gaze.   
  
There were fresh flowers in a vase on the table beside the bed. Otherwise, the room was completely white and bare of any decoration. Edith gave a small sigh and fluffed up the pillow propping her father up, then turned to Harry. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like--it's rare that he gets visitors. He may not say anything, but I'm sure he appreciates the company." Harry nodded to Edith, who pulled up a waiting chair beside the bed and then left him to his own devices.   
  
Feeling especially awkward, Harry sank down into the seat beside Josiah. The silence of the house seemed to swallow him up as he looked at the man, and it was some time before he could bring himself to speak. He didn't know that it would do any good--this certainly wasn't the conversation he'd been expecting to have when he made his way here today, with how one-sided it was sure to be, but perhaps Josiah was listening, even if he was unable to respond.   
  
"Mr. Mulciber, I'm Auror Harry James Potter--I'm here to speak to you regarding an interview you gave shortly after the disappearance of an old friend of yours by the name of Tom Riddle."   
  
There was no response from Mulciber Sr., save for a slow, lazy blink of his eyes.   
  
Feeling a little bit more confident despite the awkwardness of it all, Harry cleared his throat and continued. "You expressed a great deal of frustration with the Auror investigation at the time in your interview, indicating that you felt that the DMLE was dragging its heels and not working hard enough to find out what had happened to Mr. Riddle. As I recall, you were one of the small group that came forward to report him missing, and there are multiple records indicating that you've attempted several times over the years to get them to reopen the case." As before, there was no response. Half-heartedly, Harry had hoped that speaking of Riddle might trigger a response of some sort, but he knew this was a foolish thought. Still, there was nothing to imply that Josiah _couldn't_ hear and understand what he was saying.   
  
"I bet it gets lonely up here, just you and Edith and this room," Harry observed. "Maybe we should get some light in here?" he suggested aloud, glancing to the closed white shutters over the windows. Taking a deep breath, Harry stood and paced over to the windows, throwing the shutters open wide to let sunlight stream through. Already, the room seemed significantly more pleasant with the addition of proper sunlight. Turning to face Josiah, Harry could now see there was a long, jagged scar running over the back of the elderly man's head. It looked like whatever had happened, the wound had been deep. As he threw open the second shutter and glanced back, he realized that Josiah's staring gaze was now focused on him, though he hadn't otherwise moved. 

"Mr. Mulciber," Harry addressed, clearing his throat again. "Can you understand me?" Josiah blinked, listing slightly against the pillows propping him up. Harry paused. "Blink if you can understand me."   
  
There was a slow, heavy pause before Josiah's eye shuttered and opened once again to refocus on Harry. "Wow, okay! Okay, great," Harry fumbled, leaning against the back of the chair beside the bed. "My name's Harry Potter--I'm an Auror and I'm working on putting together the circumstances around Tom Riddle's disappearance. Do you remember Tom Riddle?"   
  
There was a slow, lazy blink from Josiah.   
  
"Right. Great," Harry blustered, dropping into the chair. "I know you can't really talk to me right now, but I'll keep coming back until we can figure out a way to communicate." He was rewarded with another slow blink. "Thank you for working with me on this."   
  
"What's this--you opened the windows?" Harry turned to see Edith standing in the doorway with a tray of what looked like her father's lunch. Producing a stand, she set down the tray. "Well, I suppose a bit of sunlight won't hurt," she hummed. "I understand this probably isn't what you were hoping for when you came to speak with my father."   
  
"No really, it's quite alright. I think I've found a way for us to communicate with each other, though I've got to think on it a bit."  
  
Edith frowned. "What do you mean? He's not capable of responding right now," she said, gesturing to Josiah.   
  
"He is capable of blinking his eyes though, and he's been watching me since I opened the windows. Whatever injury he may have sustained, he's still awake and alert enough to react." Harry paused momentarily, glancing to Josiah and quickly wracking his brain for a solution. "Here, how about this. Josiah," Harry said, addressing the elder Mulciber, "Blink once for a 'yes' and twice for a 'no', alright?"   
  
Josiah blinked once.   
  
Edith was staring openly, hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were bone-white. "Merlin. Daddy, do you remember what happened?"   
  
Two blinks.   
  
Edith let out a small, pained noise, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. "The mediwizard said he'd never be able to speak again."   
  
Two hasty blinks followed from Josiah.   
  
"I think I've heard of something we can do," Harry said hurriedly, "I don't know how you feel about muggle medical techniques, but I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that they've got a way for people who are paralyzed to communicate, and I think he may be able to use it. I've got to reach out to a few folks for confirmation, but I think we can work this out. I--" Harry paused, taking in how overwhelmed Edith looked, then continued, "--I know this is probably a lot to take in. But would it be alright for me to keep in touch with you and see if we can't get something set up?"   
  
"I don't care if it's muggle. I'll do anything if it means I can talk with him again," Edith choked, sniffing loudly and covering her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Twelve years without a word, and now this. All this time."   
  
"I'll leave you two to your lunch," Harry excused, "but if you need to get in touch you can either owl me or drop by the DMLE and leave a message at my office, alright? I'll get in contact with you as soon as I learn anything more about what we can do to help him communicate."   
  
Edith nodded, seeming to remember the pureblood manners that she'd been raised on and walking him through the house down to the front door. As Harry politely said his goodbyes and turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed his wrist, holding it tightly. Harry turned back and Edith squeezed his hand and whispered, "Thank you." It felt as if there was so much more that she wanted to say, but that seemed to be all she was able to express in the moment.  
  
"Thank you for letting me meet with your father," Harry responded seriously. "I'll write as soon as I hear anything, alright?"   
  
She nodded, and released her grip. Harry tipped his head, making his way to the end of the path leading up to the house before apparating.   
  


* * *

  
"Do we have any records on the Mulciber family?" Harry questioned, leaning against the clerk's counter in the legal records department. "I'm looking specifically for records that are in regards to or have mention of Josiah Mulciber."   
  
The clerk looked down her nose at Harry before pushing up her glasses. "I'll see what I can do, but I make no promises. You're looking for any criminal records, I take it?"  
  
"Anything on file, but if there's anything from around twelve years ago it'd be of particular interest to me."   
  
The clerk nodded, taking a couple of quick notes. "Alright. Fill out the request form and I'll get back to you if I find anything."

"This isn't an official request on an open case," Harry acknowledged, "I'm just following a potential lead on a cold case."  
  
"Ah--no forms then, I take it? Off books?" she questioned, arching one perfectly-plucked eyebrow above her glasses at him.   
  
"Thanks, Daisy," Harry beamed.  
  
She side-eyed him suspiciously, tapping the files she'd been stacking on her desk to straighten them. "Don't you go being all sweet with me, Mr. Potter, I know when you're up to something." She plucked a form from one of several stacks off to her left, scribbling down his name and stamping it. "You can go now, I'll send up a letter when I've got your information."  
  
Harry nodded and with a cheerful wave, departed for his office.   
  
After several hours of sitting alone in his office and slowly watching most of his coworkers head home for the night (except for the scant few Aurors currently on the night shift), the silence of his cramped little room was beginning to wear on Harry, only interrupted by the occasional tap of his quill and the distant sound of someone playing Celestina Warbeck on the radio in their cubicle in the main area. He'd been reading through the interview transcripts of Riddle's friends regarding when he'd last been seen and no matter how many times he looked them over, nothing new was standing out to him. They all told the same story--that Riddle had been expected for a get-together at Todrick Lestrange's home with several others: Josiah Mulciber, Erastus and Elizabeth Carrow, Abraxas Malfoy, and Antonin Dolohov. They'd waited for over an hour for Tom--who by their report was usually the most punctual of the lot of them--before they'd attempted to floo call him. Mr. Malfoy had gone through the fire with Dolohov and Josiah when there was no response and had searched Blackbarrow from top to bottom but found no trace of him. There was a small gap of three days between when Riddle had last been seen and when he was expected and didn't show, but the gap between when his disappearance was noted versus when it was actually reported was far more significant. 

Nearly a full week had passed after Riddle was noted missing by his friends before it was reported. By their word, the five of them had believed that Riddle may have gone on an unexpected excursion out of the country which, according to those who knew him, was not unusual for him--Riddle traveled frequently and sometimes at the drop of a hat off into parts unknown, disappearing in and out of Britain on a fairly regular basis. By their report over the next few days they attempted to confirm that he had left the country only to find evidence that he'd missed an appointment with his orator as well as a scheduled outing with two other associates. It was at this point that they realized something wasn't right, and collectively reported his absence. Auror Wilbur Remsey and his partner, Auror Grace Hemmings, went to Blackbarrow to investigate only to find that the house wards were physically impenetrable, at which point those who reported Riddle missing were called in to see if they could pass through the wards, which also failed. An on-call wardsmith was unable to crack the barriers surrounding the property, and it was at this point that it was found to be near impossible to apparate near the house. Several further attempts were made to breach the property lines, all of which failed. Some further cursory investigations were done but there was no sign whatsoever of Riddle that could be unearthed.   
  
"But why did they wait so long?" Harry hummed to himself, leaning over his desk to flip back a few pages in the report. "Was it because it would have been revealed that he was a dark wizard, if Aurors searched his home?" Being a dark wizard in itself was not illegal, but it meant that Aurors were certainly going to pay a tad closer attention to any mention of your name if they suspected any potentiality of open practice of magics that were deemed actively harmful and malevolent to the caster and the general populace at large. Harry could imagine that there were any number of reasons why Riddle's cohorts wouldn't want to draw the attention of Aurors in conjunction with Riddle's name, especially considering Riddle's political machinations, so it made sense...but still, those few days between when he was last seen and when he had been reported missing may have been crucial in locating him, especially considering that at first the wards around the house were open for some unknown amount of time before something (likely Riddle himself, Harry posited) closed them and the opportunity had been passed. 

Sighing, Harry scrubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes and dragged them through his hair only to realize he'd been reflexively doing that so much that most of his hair had escaped the tie that was holding it back. Letting out a groan of frustration, he fumbled the rubber band from his hair and held it momentarily between his lips as he tried to comb his unruly locks into some semblance of order, glancing at the wall clock from the corner of his eye as he grabbed the tie and yanked it back carelessly. The clock hands, unhelpfully, pointed to 1:06am.   
  
"Shit, shit shit shit!" He moaned. He'd promised Hermione and Ron this past weekend during his impromptu visit that he'd drop by for dinner on Tuesday and he'd completely missed it. Well...it was far beyond the point of salvaging now. Heaving a heavy sigh, Harry closed up the file and threw on his coat and scarf; it was long past when he should have been on his way back to Blackbarrow. It was quick work to lock up. He waved to Perry who like him was up for a late night and likely on his fourth cup of coffee. Perry waved blearily back as the jazzy warbling of Celestina Warbeck crackled and shifted to a much older big band gearing up into a cheerful, jaunty tune that really didn't match the tired mood that pervaded the DMLE at this hour of the morning.   
  
"You're off in a rush," Perry noted, waving a paper at him.   
  
"Didn't realize the time," Harry admitted, pausing momentarily and wandering over to his desk. "What are you working on here?" 

"Ah...the autopsy report just came back on the last girl. There were some signs of internal trauma that were inconsistent with the other bodies." 

"Trauma?" 

"Well, she'd been split open and sewn back up. There were some organs missing, this time."

A tight knot formed in the back of Harry's throat, and he swallowed uselessly. "That's new behavior," he observed.   
  
"Yeah," Perry agreed. "Just wish I knew what it meant. Well, hope you have a pleasant night despite it," Perry said with a flat, humorless smile. "No nightmares on my account, okay?"

"Right," Harry agreed, shouldering his bag.

"I'll hold down the fort here, you get some rest Potter."

Harry couldn't get away fast enough. 

  
  
Walking the halls of the Ministry at this early of an hour was an exercise in ignoring the subtle undercurrent of uneasiness that persisted when walking through a usually-crowded building now rendered empty and echoing. Usually Harry didn't mind it too much, but sometimes the halls were so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat over the sound of his footsteps on the marbled green tiles. In those moments, Harry could almost imagine something following just behind him, just beyond the corner of his eye, waiting. Harry was beginning to get just such a creeping, slow-growing feeling as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked a bit faster toward the end of the hallway to the elevator. It was only when the hairs began to stand up on the back of his neck and he stopped walking momentarily that he heard it: the sound of footsteps overlapping his, coming to a sharp stop a half-second later than his own. 

His breath quickened and he could feel his heart racing just beneath his ribcage. He wasn't alone here. That in itself was unsurprising, there were a small number of house elves and the occasional late worker that haunted the halls and passageways of the Ministry at night, but this was different. A house elf had no need to hide itself in a deserted building, and the steps were too spaced out and unhurried to belong to such a small creature. Holding his breath, Harry started walking again, purposefully ignoring his accompaniment and keeping a keen ear for the sound--and there it was again, the click of a heeled boot on the tiles behind him. Harry took a measured breath as he continued at an even pace, twisting his fingers to unclip his wand from its holster. The weight of it as it dropped into his waiting hand was a small comfort against the panic building in his chest that he desperately forced down. He was an Auror; he dealt with danger on a regular basis.   
  
It only took a split second for Harry to whirl around to face his stalker, wand at the ready and a spell on his lips, only to be greeted with an empty hallway.   
  
Something was very, very wrong. 

" _Revelio_!" Harry snapped, slashing his wand toward the empty hall. Nothing presented itself, no hidden follower under an invisibility cloak, no wandering house elf, nothing.

Harry could see his breath misting before him as the temperature around him suddenly dipped. Down at the far, distant end of the hall, a light blew, shattering glass scattering across the floor. Another followed, closer this time, bathing the end of the hall in darkness.

He needed no further prompting as the panic crawled up his throat. Harry was not a coward. He had faced down opponents who would just as soon see him dead, skilled fighters and dark wizards alike, but this was different. There was nothing here to fight, there was no physical presence that he could attack, subdue, kill. He was powerless here.

Harry ran.

Harry ran until his lungs felt ready to burst with the exertion of it, turning down corridor after corridor, the sound of shattering glass following just on the backs of his heels as he raced toward the elevator, punching the button to summon it furiously. Diving into the small compartment, he slammed his hand down on the 'close' button, shakily wheezing out, "Come on, come on come on faster!" He looked up as the lights shattered not twenty feet away, then ten, the last one going out just as the elevator doors clicked shut and he was left alone, safe. He dropped to his knees in the elevator, shaking and out of breath. It took him a few seconds to recover enough to punch the button combination for the Atrium. He'd definitely warn Hermione that something was lurking in the Ministry halls at night--whatever that was could be dangerous. Perhaps something had escaped from the Department of Mysteries?

The elevator set off with a sharp lurch that nearly knocked Harry off his feet, and he grabbed for the bar on the wall, clinging as it rocketed downward at breakneck speed. He hated the damn thing, but he could imagine wizards could come up with worse modes of transportation if they were pressed for it. The elevator itself felt old and rickety, held together with little else but magic and a bit of daring hope. Worst of all it smelled of something sharp and metallic, which was...unusual actually, now that Harry thought about it. The scent was strangely familiar, playing at the edge of his memories.  
  
The lights fluttered overhead, flickering in and out immediately drawing Harry's attention, even as he felt the hurtling death-trap of an elevator slow its descent. His hands felt slick on the support bar and he glanced down just in time for his memory to spark.

Blood. The smell was blood--thick, cloying, and fresh, all over his hands.

It was at that moment that the lights sputtered out and Harry was plunged into pitch black. The darkness clawed at him and he was sure he was screaming even as he could feel it writhing and thrashing about within the small compartment, sliding slick and wet and heavy over every inch of his skin, slithering into his eyes, nose, ears, down his throat. It pulsated and roiled around him like a cancer, growing to fill every inch of space. He was suffocating, he couldn't breathe, he could hear his heartbeat racing even as it seemed to catch and fall into rhythm with the blackness surrounding him. He was dying, surely. 

The ping of the elevator doors brought Harry back to himself, and he blinked owlishly at the now-blinding white light of fluorescent bulbs overtaking his senses. His glasses had fallen off it seemed. He fumbled blindly for a moment, fingers closing around the delicate round metal frames just as he noticed a figure standing before the open elevator door. Putting his glasses on and adjusting them slightly, he glanced up. 

The blood drained from his face. "Patty?" he choked. 

There she was, standing in her white nightgown, a blue ribbon tangled in her red hair and heavy bruises wrapping around her throat. "Why?" she asked. 

"No. No don't do this to me--"  
  
"Why didn't you save me?" she wailed, "I was alone and it was dark and you _didn't come!"_

"I'm sorry Patty, I'm so sorry," Harry sobbed, dropping to the floor and clutching his hands so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. The pain didn't feel real. None of this felt real. He felt like he was watching himself from somewhere off to the side, disconnected. "I'll find the person who did this to you, I swear I will." 

"How can you? You're not even looking anymore," Patty accused, her voice cold and furious.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "It's not my fault--" 

"Liar," she whispered, her voice distant, fading. He felt like he was fading, too.

Please, let him become nothing. If he was nothing, he wouldn't have to hurt like this.

"Potter! Jesus Mary and Joseph is that blood?" There were hands grabbing his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face and suddenly he was looking up at Perry's very alarmed face. "What the hell happened? Come on, let's get you out of the elevator," he urged, and Harry found himself being bodily lifted and carried out into the atrium.

He blinked blearily back at his former partner, confused. "What--what happened?" he questioned. 

"You tell me, I found your wand just lying in the hallway up by the DMLE," Perry retorted, "Knew something was wrong right off but...jesus, you savaged your neck," he realized, shocked. "Harry, we should get you to a mediwizard--"   
  
"No!" Harry snapped, then drew back in surprise at his own ferocity. "Merlin Perry, I don't know what happened. There was this _thing_ chasing me and the lights were bursting, and then the elevator went dark and--" 

"Harry," Perry said carefully, "Be honest with me. You aren't...on anything right now, are you?" 

"What?!" Harry spluttered, "No, I'm not doing drugs Perry! There was something there, I _swear_ there was and I saw Patty and--" 

Perry's expression shuttered instantly. "Shit, Potter," he sighed, scrubbing his fingers through mousy brown hair. "I should never have told you anything more about the case before if it's getting you like this."

"That is _not_ what sparked this, I--I'm not crazy, Perry! There was something there!" 

"Harry, there were no broken lights. You fucking clawed your neck to shreds and you need medical attention. Come on, let's go back up to the department and I'll get the med kit out and we can take care of those scratches, maybe call someone to pick you up--"

"I'm _fine,"_ Harry insisted, though both he and Perry most certainly knew that he was very much _not_ fine, he was bewildered and fucking terrified out of his mind. 

"You are not fine," Perry said with the gentle, patient tone he usually took up when calming a distressed witness, "Harry you sound like you were hallucinating and you hurt yourself. You had some kind of episode, Harry, this isn't normal and this isn't okay."   
  
His eyes were burning. He smeared the back of his hand across them and they came away wet with tears. Harry stared openly for a moment as it slowly began to sink in. "Please don't tell my dad," Harry choked, his voice broken and cracking. 

Perry frowned deeply, hesitating before he answered. "I won't tell him--if and _only_ if you take medical leave for another few months until...whatever this is has passed. And no more talking about the case. Clearly it does nothing but aggravate you and you're in no state to handle it right now."

"Okay," Harry agreed, half clinging to Perry as he leaned against the wall outside the elevator. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good man," Perry said, clapping an arm around him in a rough hug. "Alright, let's get you patched up and sent home, yeah? Can't be letting you wander out of the Ministry looking like this." 


	15. Into the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Listening:  
> Panic Attack by Liza Anne  
> It's Magic by Doris Day
> 
> Thank you to zvii for acting as beta for this chapter!

The fact that he'd been hallucinating wasn't the worst part for Harry. No, the worst part was being discovered in the midst of it all and Perry having to shake some sense into him. The idea of his father finding out filled him with anxiety that coiled in the pit of his stomach. He felt nauseous. He kept flinching as Perry daubed at his neck with an alcohol-drenched cloth, carefully cleaning away the blood from the scrapes on his neck.   
  
"It seemed so real," Harry mumbled. He still felt distant and weirdly separated from this conversation as if he were floating across the room, observing from afar as events played themselves out.   
  
"I'm sure it did," Perry agreed, "folks who are seeing shit aren't known for being able to distinguish it from reality."   
  
"I don't think it was a hallucination," Harry argued, "it was too in depth, too...everywhere all at once." It couldn't have been a hallucination...not with the popping lights and the terrible encroaching darkness and the blood on his hands that was so, _so real._ Right?

"You can think what you like I suppose," Perry acknowledged, daubing at a particularly sensitive cut that made Harry bite back a hiss of pain. "That doesn't change the fact that it happened and you can't ignore it. You can't keep going like this, Harry. This is way, way worse than your last breakdown."  
  
"...Yeah," he admitted, bowing his head. "I've...never been through anything like that before."   
  
"Are you sure you don't want me to call a mediwizard? You really should see somebody," Perry suggested, setting aside the bloodied tissues and uncapping an antiseptic cream. "Everyone knows you're struggling--you don't have to go through it alone." 

"What could a mediwizard even do? Wix don't really have much by way of mental health services," Harry muttered sourly, kicking at the desk beside his chair half-heartedly. 

"Maybe talk to someone, at least? Talking helps with trauma--"   
  
"I'm not traumatized," Harry growled, but his anger dissipated at the sad, tired expression on Perry's face. "I'm not. I'm just...I don't know, depressed maybe? Stressed?" 

"This job's a harsh one, Potter. There's nothing weak about admitting that you've been fucked up by it. Hell, I've been fucked up by it too. Tougher Aurors than you have had to quit due to the strain of it. This shit wears on you after a while." 

"I'm not weak," Harry grumbled, staring down at the blood encrusted under his fingernails. 

"I never said you were," Perry agreed. "I won't tell your dad, but if this happens again then I'm gonna have to tell somebody who can do something about it, or at least keep an eye out for you. You've got friends, yeah? That Weasley kid seems reliable, why don't you talk to him about it?"   
  
"I'll think about it." It was a reluctant acquiescence, but this seemed to be enough to satisfy Perry.

He gently urged him to tilt back his head, carefully applying the antiseptic to his injuries. "Hold your hair up so I can get this wrapped," he instructed, and Harry pulled back his hair haphazardly.   
  
Perry slowly wrapped fresh linen bandages around Harry's neck, neatly finishing off with a sticking charm. "All set. It'll take a bit to heal and you'll probably come up with some pretty silly excuses about it but you're good to go." He paused, momentarily resting his hands on Harry's shoulders. "I mean it when I say take a break for a bit, alright? At least a few weeks more of rest will do you some good. And think about what I said." 

His former partner was irritatingly pleasant as he brought Harry back down to the Atrium floo entrance, but there was an edge of resolute intensity beneath his stolid demeanor as he walked with Harry through the deserted halls of the Ministry. The darkness that had been curling its fingers around the edges of his vision the whole trip down before seemed to have been startled away by the comfort of being with another person. This, Harry had missed. He liked the easy trust he'd had that Perry would be there at every moment to watch his back as he did his, when they'd worked alongside one another in the Ongoing Investigations Unit. In the Cold Case Unit, he worked alone.

"Merlin Potter, what happened to your neck?" the familiar disbelieving tone rang out as Barty Crouch Jr crossed the atrium heading in their direction.   
  
"Helping out with a magical creatures incident," Perry responded without missing a beat, "A magically enhanced octopus with some bloodsucking tendencies got a good grip on his neck. He's alright but we're sending him home now."   
  
Barty's lips twisted in a way that said he clearly didn't believe a word out of Perry's mouth, but was amused enough to let it slide. He certainly was no office gossip, but he was sure to have read that article Skeeter published regarding his casework, where she had questioned his mental fortitude to handle the case that he'd originally been assigned. Harry wished he could just disappear--his dad's invisibility cloak would be coming in real handy right now. He'd told himself it would be fine to come back despite Skeeter's article and his previously-noted instability, but he couldn't help but feel like he was being judged every time one of his coworkers paid him any attention. "All-righty then don't tell me," Crouch dismissed, shooting a grin in his direction. "You steady on your feet there, Potter?"   
  
"Yeah, jus' been a long night," Harry responded as Perry got the floo going and the fire flared up as high as his head. "I'm fine, really." 

"If you say so," Barty agreed. "It's definitely been a long night." Harry was sure it had been. Barty was the second runner up to him for the office's biggest workaholic; always spent an inordinate amount of time in the office before heading back to the Crouch residence. Harry had always had a bit of a feeling that something was off in his home life...he knew Barty Crouch Sr. well enough by proxy to his father to know that the man was a difficult personality to be around even in the shortest of bouts of exposure.   
  
"What's your address again, Potter?" Perry questioned absently, eyes focused on the green flames.   
  
"Blackbarrow Manor," Harry responded unconcernedly, save for the fact that suddenly Crouch was looking at him rather oddly.   
  
"You've moved?" Crouch questioned, his voice gone quiet. 

"Yeah, I got a new place," Harry responded. He felt like all of the adrenaline from earlier had swept through his system and taken all his remaining energy with it, but there was something about Barty's expression that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge and a rush of tension through his body compounding on his newly-budding headache. He just wanted to get home and sleep this off but the look in Crouch's eyes was strange enough to keep him up all night even with his exhaustion.   
  
"Congratulations," Crouch said, his expression unreadable beyond an intensity that Harry couldn't quite define. "Well whatever you two are up to, have a good evening. Crouch Residence," he called into the floo beside theirs before stepping through in a burst of green, leaving Harry alone in the atrium with Perry.  
  
"Blackbarrow Manor," Perry called out, turning and resting a hand momentarily on his arm. "You sure you're okay to head home alone?"   
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Whatever it was has passed," Harry sighed, reflexively rubbing at the undamaged back of his neck. "I just want to get home and sleep this off. I'll call out tomorrow and talk it over with James."   
  
"I still can't get over the fact that you call him James at work," Perry said amusedly, "Boss or no he's still your dad."   
  
"And father or no we need to maintain an air of professionalism and distance so no-one thinks he's engaging in nepotism," Harry drawled, well used to this conversation with his father.  
  
"Be that as it may, you're still family. You should be able to acknowledge that," Perry shrugged. "I know you've got beef with your dad but there's going to come a day where the opportunity for the two of you to reconnect will have passed you by and it'll be too late to get it back. I can't tell you how much I wish my Da was still around."  
  
"Yeah," Harry grumbled, "Sure."

He knew that it was coming from a good place; Perry had lost his father just a few years back to a stroke and they'd been quite close, but it felt flat when he thought about his own relationship with his father which was...complicated at best. It had been so good when he was a kid. James, Remus, Sirius and Peter were all constantly working to co-parent him it had seemed. Lily used to joke that he had four fathers and in a way it felt as if it had most certainly taken the four of them to collectively raise him, when James was increasingly finding himself swept up with his work, but it always seemed like an excuse. Sirius had taken over a lot of the fun activities that he used to do with his dad. Remus had become the one he could consult when he needed advice, and Peter never hesitated to help him whenever there was something he didn't understand in his studies, though he hadn't been more than an average student when he went to Hogwarts. Peter though, increasingly hadn't taken well to Harry insisting that he was "just Harry, not Harriet," so that had crashed and burned fairly quickly. His parents still spoke to him, Harry was sure, but their relationship was heavily strained. By the time Harry had graduated, it had seemed as if he had only two. 

"Perry--" Harry hesitated before the floo, turning to face his former partner. There was so much he wanted to say in that moment, but his mouth felt pinched and frozen shut. "Thanks," he finally managed. 

"It's no trouble," Perry dismissed. "Now go on home and get some rest, Potter," he said, pushing him toward the floo.  
  


* * *

  
Harry burst through into his living room in a flash of green light before the fire returned to its normal size in the grate, crackling merrily away. Harry could hear some crooning, jazzy music that sounded like it might be Sinatra coming from some other distant room in the house, though both house elves had clearly gone to bed for the evening. His first thought was that he should probably eat something, but his exhaustion almost immediately outweighed that as he felt his knees wobble a bit where he stood. Taking a slow, deep breath, Harry shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He made a half-hearted attempted to throw it onto the coat rack by the front closet as he passed, but it ended up sliding across the floor to settle itself near his other pair of boots (and the pair of Tom's that sat there looking for all the world like they perfectly belonged beside his own. Harry couldn't quite remember why he never bothered to pack those up, but something about moving them didn't feel right).   
  
Tired as he was, Harry still felt slightly unsettled. Part of it was from what had happened at the ministry, but there was something else that just...didn't seem quiet right. It was like noticing that all of the furniture in your home had been moved exactly three inches to the side of where it had previously been placed; similar enough to seem like nothing had changed, but just different enough for you to lose your ability to thoughtlessly navigate around a place that once had been familiar but had been subtly corrupted. For once though, it wasn't the house or Tom that was giving him this feeling. No, returning home was a comfort against whatever this was. There was just something about the way Crouch had looked at him that felt off.   
  
Harry didn't bother to follow the music to where he would surely find Tom--he went straight up to bed and crawled in fully clothed, only pausing to kick off his shoes before taking refuge in the warmth of his covers. He dozed on and off, his sleep unsettled and restless. He danced on the edge of a nightmare now and again only to wake up shaking and covered in sweat, writhing about in his sheets only for a warm hand to cup his face and soothing words to murmur into his ear, lulling him back into the clutches of sleep. At one point when he awoke he found that someone had removed his heavy sweater and neatly set his boots alongside the bed in anticipation of the next day. He was properly awoken significantly later upon noticing the bright daylight filtering down from a crack in the heavy window curtains over his bed, and the accompanying realization that he hadn't been awakened by his usual alarm.   
  
"Wha--"   
  
"I had the house elf call out on your behalf," Riddle's voice interrupted before Harry could properly express a coherent thought. "You looked to be in no condition to be returning to work today."   
  
Harry blinked blearily, then scrubbed his eyes as he focused in on Riddle, who looked decidedly...different. Only the slightest fog of smoke hung about his form as he stood at Harry's bedside in a loose white button-up and a pair of snappy looking chinos. His face was partially obscured in shadow, luminous red eyes shining out of the darkness. The old but carefully-polished boots that Harry had passed by near the front door so many times were on his feet.   
  
"You _called out of--"_

"Yes, I can be useful now and then you know," Tom cut him off. He looked mildly irritated but the expression seemed to melt from his face even as he stood there, watching him. "What happened?" he questioned, "You were a mess last night and you don't look much better off now."   
  
"I..." Harry paused, considering. Did he want to tell Tom? What would he even think of it all? "I don't rightly know," he admitted. It was true enough--he had no idea what had sparked the incident last night in the Ministry, whether it was something real and tangible or whether it was a conjuration of his own mind.   
  
"You came back injured," Tom observed, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at Harry disapprovingly.   
  
"That'll happen sometimes," Harry responded evenly. "I'm an Auror, risk of injury is part of the job." 

Riddle's lips twisted and he turned on his heel. "There's brunch waiting for you in the Atrium when you're ready." With that said he seemed to melt back into the shadows of the room, fading into nothing.   
  
It took Harry a minute to work up the motivation to get up despite the rush of panic at thinking he'd been late to call out. Scrubbing the dirt from his eyes, he flicked his hand carelessly at the windows and the curtains shot open, flooding the room with light. Snow fell softly outside the window, blanketing the ground in a delicate coat of white. Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, looks like my break is being enforced," he muttered to himself. He padded his way to the attached bathroom to glance in the mirror. There were bloodstains around the collar of his shirt and hints at further red staining the bandages around his neck. He'd been about to say 'screw it' and go down like this, but the idea of how deeply it would upset Pella made him reconsider. He pulled off his shirt and scrubbed down the dried blood on his collar, pulling his hair back out of his face momentarily to glance at the lightning bolt symbol that seemed to be burned into the skin of his forehead from that party many nights ago. It seemed irritated and hurt a bit when Harry poked at it. He frowned into the mirror before shrugging and splashing his face with a bit of water, sweeping his hair back into a loose bun and throwing on a t-shirt before making his way back downstairs.  
  
He paused on the second floor entry to the atrium, then continued down to the parlor downstairs, throwing a bit of powder on the floo and calling the address for his father's DMLE office and sticking his head through.   
  
James was speaking with a pair of Aurors Harry recognized immediately--Ted and Brandy had both been assigned to the Knockturn beat for the past several months, and had been the ones to discover several of the bodies down there. Whatever conversation they were having immediately cut off at the sound of the floo flaring, and James stood to glance past them from behind his desk. "Harry?"   
  
"Hey James, sorry to interrupt." 

"It's alright, we were just finishing up here," James said, glancing to the two Aurors, "We'll catch up on the rest later, but let me know if there's anything else of note that you come across," he addressed them in clear dismissal. They nodded and left, closing the door behind them. "What's going on? Your house elf called earlier to say you were out sick."   
  
"Haven't been feeling well lately," Harry responded. Technically it wasn't a lie, he hadn't really been at his best for some time. "My resident specter decided to take the initiative and had one of the house elves call out for me, then turned off my alarm. Just wanted to check in and make sure that I was being told the truth there," he said, fighting down the feeling of embarrassment that fought to break free.   
  
"Riddle did?" James questioned, surprised. "Well, that's interesting. Frankly though, I agree with him. You look like shit Harry."   
  
"Thanks," he drawled. "But...on that note," Harry continued, "I think I need to take reintegrating into the force a bit slower. I'm gonna be doing a bit more work from out of the office for the next few weeks if that's alright with you. I've got the files and they're all secure," Harry assured.  
  
"You know the ones that matter won't judge you, Harry," James said gently. "But you take whatever time you need, alright?" James paused, laying a hand flat on his desk as he considered what to say before adding, "You know Harry--if you're not ready to come back in this capacity there are other opportunities for you out there."   
  
Harry bit his tongue against the angry retort that threatened to spill out. "I'm quite certain I'm in the right career, Dad. I just...need some time for things to stabilize."   
  
"Right," James agreed carefully. Merlin, every moment of silence that passed between them felt agonizingly awkward. They were both clearly trying to avoid having a talk that they very badly needed to, but neither was ready for it.   
  
"Right," Harry followed up shortly after, "I'll see you when I'm ready to be back in the office," he said, and pulled his head from the floo, closing the connection promptly behind him and only then letting out the breath he'd been holding. He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? Well...sort of. He wasn't completely taking a break like Perry had asked, but perhaps it was close enough that he'd let him slide on it. He needed to keep working. He'd go mad if he didn't have that, at least. 

With that taken care of Harry paused, glancing around the parlor only to realize that somehow the furniture he'd left for reupholstery with Flitrip had been picked up and neatly rearranged around the room. The cream-colored curtains that Pella had been working on this past week seemed to make the room that much brighter, contrasting gently with the warm burgundy and gold-threaded cushions on the sofa and chairs. "When did all this happen?" Harry questioned aloud, glancing about the room. Centrally, a painting had been re-hung above the fireplace depicting a a harsh, rocky hillside dotted with mossy green and sprigs of grass, looking out over a steep drop to waters below. It seemed oddly familiar, and reminded Harry very much of the landscape a bit further down the coast. A single figure stood on a distant hillside. He was barely more than a smudge of paint on the canvas but somehow Harry knew that it was Tom in the painting.   
  
"Your food is going to go cold," Riddle's voice cut in, appearing in the doorway.   
  
"Was this all you?" Harry questioned, turning to face him and gesturing at the decor.   
  
"Well it was looking awfully dull without any furniture in here," Tom excused, "I had the house elves contact the reupholsterer on your behalf to check on your order yesterday while you were at work and they had the completed pieces delivered. It's rather amazing how much furniture an owl can carry when it's been shrunken down, isn't it?" he questioned, amused. "Bloody bird tried to scratch me for my troubles, not that it succeeded."   
  
"Why?" Harry asked, confusion mixing with his surprise. "How did you know where I placed the order?"   
  
"It wasn't hard to do a bit of investigating," Riddle dismissed. "There's only one reupholstery shop that's been open on Diagon for the past hundred years so it wasn't hard. I merely wrote them a letter and forged your signature requesting the delivery."   
  
"You _forged_ my signature?!" Harry squawked.  
  
"A necessity," Riddle said simply. "What I can do in this state is certainly limited, but you've seemed quite focused on your work and I've precious little else to do other than focus on the house, and I'm not waiting about for you to catch up if I can help it."   
  
Harry just shook his head, unable to wrap his head around it all. Not that it didn't look nice, and he didn't mind the extra that it would probably have cost him for the delivery, but Tom taking initiative with anything this directly was a new concept.   
  
"You should pick your jaw up off the floor and head down to the atrium," Riddle suggested.

Harry found himself steered back through the halls to the Atrium with Tom's hand on the small of his back even as he was processing everything that Riddle had done in his absence over the past day. And then the thought occurred to him as they passed through the Atrium's glass double doors. "Have you been corresponding with anyone else by letter like that, while I've been out?"   
  
"Not to any great degree," Riddle said pleasantly even as Harry realized that something about the Atrium was different. He could see the snow falling outside but the plants didn't look nearly as overgrown and there were a variety of species that he didn't recognize. Music was playing softly on an old wizarding radio on a small pedestal off to the side. "I've mostly been working through the house elves to get a few things tidied up and rearranged. This is just a memory, of course," he said as he gestured carelessly at the beautifully maintained indoor trees and flowering vines. "But it could be like this again someday." 

"How do you do that?" Harry questioned carefully, glancing about.  
  
"The house remembers, and the house provides," Riddle responded as if this answered everything.   
  
"So these are...relived memories?"

"Something like that, yes," Tom agreed, trailing his hand along the round edge of the table as he circled about, seeming lost in thought.   
  
"Why do you do this?" Harry asked, gesturing around to the atrium.  
  
"I have very limited control over it actually," Tom admitted, "but I noted it was happening down here and figured you may be interested in seeing this place in its prime."   
  
"Fair enough," Harry agreed, dropping into a seat at the enameled iron table and setting about serving himself a plate with a little of everything. There was clearly more food laid out than he could eat on his own, and there were a few other chairs pulled up to the table, as if Tom had been expecting company. "Makes me wonder though at how real the food is."   
  
"I'm surprised you're being so clinical about this."   
  
"I'm an investigator. It's my job to make observations and ask the questions other people aren't thinking of. Most of my work is based on scavenged information and anecdotes. The only question is whether I'm asking the _right_ questions for the current situation," Harry said matter-of-factly as he spread a bit of jam on a piece of toast. "And honestly I don't know what I'm doing most of the time when it comes to you and this place, I'm just winging it." Glancing at the empty seats he looked back to Riddle. "Were you expecting guests?" he asked.   
  
"I was, but they were delayed. Two of my associates were detained for spreading anti-statute literature around Knockturn and the surrounding streets. The only one to show in the end was Abraxas," Tom said, and on queue the atrium doors were thrown open with force and Abraxas strode in, fuming mad. Tom's demeanor changed and shifted, becoming one of surprise and concern as he walked around the table to face his friend. It was as if he melted into the moment and became a part of it, disengaging from Harry.  
  
"I can't BELIEVE them! There's no law against distributing literature," Abraxas raged, his focus keying in on Tom, "Mulciber, Lestrade and Garrigan were all arrested. They're currently being held with a 'disturbing the peace' charge against them for spreading 'incendiary and dangerous information'. They're treating it the same as if they'd been handing out bloody dark arts texts on the street corner, over fucking _pamphlets!"_   
  
"Luckily," Tom drawled, trailing his fingers over Abraxas's shoulders and guiding him to take a seat at the table, "they have excellent orators, whom both you and I have paid for. They'll be fine, Brax." 

"That doesn't make it right," he groused.   
  
"No, it doesn't," Tom agreed. "But this is why we are doing this. There's no way the Ministry won't push back against people who challenge their authority, and the more people we get to speak out the more we will succeed. The statute needs to be dismantled before it becomes impossible to uphold, and if we can't get the public behind that then it won't happen peacefully. That said, they'll look for any reason to discredit us and we've already got a particularly significant one that makes for easy pickings." 

"Magic is magic," Abraxas grumbled. "Hell, half of those wizengamot elders who sit up their on their high horses have practiced in their lifetimes, but of course they'll condemn us for daring to do it publicly." 

"No matter what we do the fact that we are practitioners of dark magic will always be held as the first and foremost reason to strike us down even as officials preach for 'tolerance and sanctity of tradition' that they've long since lost sight of. All magic has its place and purpose...but magics labeled as dark are harder for them to regulate and control. If we practice on their terms then they won't have a word to say against it, but bring it out in the daylight and the right hand of the Ministry will come down to crush us."

"You don't think they'll get them to talk, will they?"   
  
"Mulciber and Garrigan are loyal to a fault, and Lestrade knows that if he speaks he'll be incriminated as much as we would."   
  
"I don't trust him."   
  
"I trust that he knows when to keep his mouth shut," Tom responded. "Calm down Abraxas. Take a breath and center yourself before you fly off the handle and do something rash," Riddle urged, squeezing Abraxas's shoulders.   
  
Harry watched as all of the fight seemed to trickle out of the blonde and he relaxed back into Tom's grip, tilting his head back against his stomach and looking up at him. "We've got a long fight ahead of us if we want to change anything, don't we?"   
  
"We do," Tom acknowledged.   
  
"Do you think we're picking our battles too broadly? Shouldn't we try and instigate change from within the community first?" he questioned.   
  
"The problem is that I don't know how much time we have before the statute becomes unenforceable. We could have all the time in the world to capture the minds and hearts of every dark practitioner in the country--and I've certainly been working at it--but we need to extend beyond what is comfortable and expected. We know the community will support me as I gain traction, but the greater wizarding world at large is another matter. I'm a dangerous unknown to them."   
  
"That's just because you go against convention and the order they've become accustomed to," Abraxas sniffed. "Admittedly, they could do with a good shaking up."   
  
"I know you're worried. Most individuals who are akin to myself have gone in with wands blazing and demanded change through violent revolution. We aren't ready for that here, especially with Grindelwald's name still on the tip of everyone's tongues. Nobody wants this to turn out the way things did in Europe and France; we don't need bodies in the streets. We don't need a dictatorship and some ham-handed leader killing people left and right. If we want what we're doing to last then we need to be pointed in how we approach facilitating the change we want."   
  
"The people who follow you are looking for you to be that kind of leader, though," Abraxas pointed out. Harry perked up in his seat, listening attentively. "They have certain expectations of you and there _are_ a good number among them that want power."   
  
"Yes, I know what you mean," Tom agreed, looking momentarily lost in thought. "There is a time and a place for such things. But whatever we do can't be done in a way that will turn the public against us."   
  
"I doubt the Lestranges care so much for 'a time and place'. They were Grindelwald supporters after all."   
  
"And yet now they support a halfblood who is proud of that status."   
  
"In name, maybe. They don't want to live on equal grounds with muggles. They want supremacy," Abraxas warned.   
  
"That they do," Tom agreed. "But I need _all_ of the community's support if we're going to affect any real change."  
  
"I thought you were above pandering."   
  
"I'll take support where I can get it, and change their minds in the process. They will see that my way of thinking is the righteous one," Tom said confidently. Abraxas didn't look to be appeased by Tom's conviction. "They forget that our society is not self-supporting. We can't live without muggles, and historically they have not reacted well to attempts at subjugation by wix. If they intend to enforce superiority they will find themselves in for a rude awakening. That being said, they're well aware of my status as a halfblood and yet they still offer their support. We shall see how far that goes," Tom said, pausing and pouring himself a cup of coffee.  
  
"Isn't it dangerous to rely on someone you don't trust?" Harry questioned aloud, and to his surprise both sets of eyes turned on him.   
  
"Who the hell is this and why did I not notice him here?!" Abraxas demanded.   
  
"He's a friend who's staying here for a time," Tom appeased.   
  
"Does he know?" Abraxas questioned, looking over to Riddle in askance.

"No."   
  
Abraxas nodded. "Right then."  
  
"Know what?" Harry questioned, but Riddle waved a hand at him motioning for silence. "I'm surprised he can respond like that, if this is a memory."  
  
"A memory?" Abraxas raised his eyebrows at Tom. "Are we asking existential questions now?" 

"Something like that," Tom agreed, pausing to take a sip of his drink before beckoning to the blonde. "Come Abraxas, we should arrange for orators to go pester the DMLE for our incarcerated associates."   
  
Harry watched as the room faded back to the cracked tiles, overgrown plants and broken window panes that he'd become familiar with, upon Tom leaving the room. The food had gone, but strangely enough the contents of Harry's plate and his coffee cup remained. Harry looked down at it thoughtfully. "The house remembers and so it provides, huh." 

Tom didn't return, leaving Harry to finish his brunch in the ruins of the old atrium, interrupted only by the chilly draft through cracked glass and the gentle absence of sound that came with the falling snow. It left him with a quiet, blanketing numbness that was only disrupted by Harry getting up to turn the radio back on, only to find that the dial didn't work--the radio had probably been broken for years. Harry paused a moment to consider then shrank the radio down and pocketed it. He had a feeling that Tom would be very curious to hear current wizarding stations if he could get it working again.  
  
One thing was certain to Harry; Riddle was definitely keeping secrets from him, beyond refusing to participate directly in his investigations. He'd have to pull it out of him through sheer force of will, at this rate. Sighing to himself, Harry picked up his empty plate and mug and made his way down to the kitchens, passing by Pella on the stairwell as she dusted between the posts. He easily fell into the monotony of scrubbing and drying the few dishes in the sink; he'd always fallen back on cleaning to help clear his head over the years and this was no different. By the time he was done, he still had come to no real conclusion as to why Riddle's behavior toward him had shifted so suddenly. It was strangely benevolent and overly-helpful. He doubted Riddle's stance on his investigations had changed, but he'd still led him down to witness the memory of Abraxas's presence unfold in the atrium...and the whole mess with him finishing the parlor was completely baffling. And then there was the vague recollection of his shoelaces being untied and soft, warm hands cupping his face and soothing him to sleep. It was shockingly intimate behavior for Riddle, who'd always been flirtatious but generally aloof beyond that. Nothing had changed in the past few days that Harry could think of that would give him reason to coddle him like this...  
  
Wait.   
  
Had he realized? Did Riddle even have a concept of such things, considering the era he came from?   
  
No, that couldn't be the reason...could it?   
  
Harry shook his head, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath in frustration as he stacked the last plate on the drying rack. The day seemed to stretch out before him in a great, empty void of possibility. He had plenty of time to himself now, but he couldn't seem to think of what to do with it all. It took a bit of consideration before he decided to clear out one of the smaller rooms and begin the process of turning it into a proper home office--he felt like it would be encroaching on Riddle's space to mess with his own cluttered study, and there were plenty of empty rooms for it--so that he could properly spread out and begin expanding on what little investigation he'd been able to complete into Riddle's disappearance. As he began wandering the halls debating on which room would be best, Harry recalled that he should send off a letter to Hermione asking about medical equipment for Mulciber and set off to the small owlery tower not far from Riddle's own study, pausing only to summon his own ink supply, a fresh quill and some stationery.   
  
Hedwig was an old gal at this point, but she was still the most reliable owl that Harry had ever had the pleasure of working with. It only took him a few spare moments to scribble out a message and tie it on to her leg, pausing for a moment to give her a treat before sending her off. He took a moment to scour down the floor of the small roost before heading back down to the room he'd picked for his own office. It took him a moment to realize he'd been walking down the hall for longer than it should have taken to reach the stairwell, passing by several unfamiliar doors along the way, before he stopped and glanced about. The house seemed to have stretched and expanded around him, lengthening impossibly.   
  
"This again?" Harry questioned, glancing about and then trying the door nearest to him. It was locked. The next five doors were all locked as well, but the sixth one was a double door that opened easily at his touch. The decorative carving around the frame seemed oddly familiar, reminding him eerily of the locked double doors down in the back of the parlor on the first floor. It couldn't be the same one though--could it? Holding his breath, he pushed one open and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him before turning to face the room, eyes widening as he took in the expanse of it.

Shelves upon shelves stretched a good thirty feet forward from where he was standing, towering above him all the way up to the ceiling of the second floor. The floor plan of the house didn't seem to account for the amount of space present here, or the expanse of it. The ceilings were vaulted and covered with old, peeling murals. Flakes of paint lay here and there among the dust on the dark wood flooring and here and there along the edges of the bookshelves. The shelves themselves looked sturdy enough that Harry could probably even risk climbing them without one toppling, made of heavy, solid oak with dovetailed joints. Harry found himself walking with slow, careful steps down the pathway between two sets of shelves, gently trailing his fingers through the dust coating the one nearest him as he tried to wrap his head around the proportions of the room. Down at the far end of the shelving were tall, arching stained glass windows that Harry had _not_ seen on the exterior of the house before, but that were there nonetheless. True to the theme of much of the house, each window depicted a different kind of snake hidden among decorative stained-glass peonies.   
  
"Trust wizards to have houses that are bigger on the inside in all sorts of weird ways," Harry murmured, a bit awestruck by the breadth of the room. Why had this place been locked off to him?   
  
His question was soon answered when he took a moment to glance at the contents of the bookshelves. He didn't recognize most of the titles, but those he did recognize were all books that had been long-since banned by the Ministry scattered in among a variety of other books--some cursed and some not--that were all detailing the practice of Dark Magic. It was a collection that could have easily landed Riddle with a lifetime sentence in Azkaban just from the sheer number of illegal books, had anyone known about it. It was almost a bit terrifying in a way that Riddle had managed to amass such a wide array over a fairly short period of time.   
  
"I wonder if he's read them all, too--I bet he has," Harry thought aloud, pulling his fingers back just in time to avoid a biting curse from one of the books. 

Slowly, he toured his way through the shelves, cataloging titles on subjects ranging from the Patronus charm to blood curses and everything in-between. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, but as he progressed along the far wall of the room the creaking suddenly gave way to a wet sucking noise. Harry fixed a close eye on the flooring and tested his weight on the boards beneath his feet only to find a strange, sticky black substance bubbling up from the cracks between them only to disappear once he removed the pressure.  
  
"That's concerning," he muttered.

Something was seeping upward from below the house. Luckily it didn't smell at least, and it didn't look like any kind of mold that Harry was familiar with. Harry carefully resumed making his way through the rows, mapping out with every step where the strange ichor was leaking up between the flooring. It seemed to take over a good chunk of the room toward the west wall, nearer to the center of the house. In one area, Harry pulled back a rug from an area of flooring luckily untouched by the tar-like material to find that there was a rectangular groove in the floor belying the presence of a trap door. He suspected it led to a basement and began trying the latch--Harry barely managed to lift the trap door an inch from its position when he was hit by a heavy, sweltering wave of heat that nearly knocked him off his feet with its intensity.   
  
Struggling back to his feet, Harry hauled at the latch and pulled the trap door as open as he could manage and glanced inside. A sharp, rickety stairwell descended into pitch black that seemed to bubble up from the depths, the room around him dimming as if heavy clouds had passed over the sun outside. " _Lumos_ ," Harry called out into the overwhelming dark. The light seemed to burble and trickle from the tip of his wand before sputtering out as the shadows around him deepened--and there in the darkness below, two gleaming molten red eyes stared back at him.   
  
It happened in a split second--one moment he was frozen in place on the floor, the next the specter was surging up from the black, soundless dark as he lunged for Harry and spidery soot-blackened fingers closed around his neck, his head bouncing painfully off the heavy oak flooring. 

_**"I had but ONE demand!"**_ Tom snarled, **_"Don't enter the locked rooms, and yet HERE YOU ARE. Tell me, why do you continue to betray me good faith?"_** he demanded, his grip around Harry's neck tightening with bruising force. 

Harry tried to respond, but the crushing pressure on his throat was too much and all that came out was a weak, shaky croak. He kicked back at Riddle as hard as he could but his foot passed right through, leaving him solidly pinned, legs splayed and writhing uselessly against the strength of Riddle's grip. The specter looked every inch as overwhelmingly unnatural as he had the very first day that Harry had laid eyes upon him. The blackened smoke that poured from his skin, flickering here and there with stray glimmers of orange and yellow embers, seemed to melt into the world around them until there was nothing but him and Tom and the empty void stretching below.   
  
The specter's touch burned, but Harry reached up and gripped at his wrists in a feeble attempt to pry them back. Even as the edges of his vision were beginning to go black Harry couldn't help but find himself experiencing a sense of horrified awe at the depth of fury and raw, unrestrained agony in Riddle's voice, in his eyes, plucked from the deepest recesses of his mind and rolling forward in an unstoppable flood.   
  
Tom was _afraid.  
  
_ Against everything in him that was screaming to fight back and escape, Harry forced himself to relax. He lay flat on the ground beneath his attacker and stared back up at him as he struggled to take in a few shallow, empty breaths. Very, very slowly he felt Tom's grip on his neck slacken and fall away and he took deep shuddering gasps, turning his cheek to rest against the floor and reveling in the feeling of air in his lungs again.   
  
_**"Why?"**_ Riddle questioned again, hands planted on Harry's shoulders holding him in place.   
  
"The library was unlocked, I just wanted to see--"   
  
This was the wrong answer. 

_**"Oh, you want to see what's down there? "**_ Tom growled, his grip tightening painfully. Riddle's arm curled around his waist and Harry found himself being bodily lifted and hauled back toward the trap door, staring down into the gaping, unnatural black.   
  
"Wait, that's not what I--Tom don't--"   
  
Tom ignored the descending stairwell entirely as he dragged Harry down into the pit. The last thing that Harry saw before the deep, overwhelming shadows closed around him was the trap door snapping shut overhead, plunging them into complete darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I figure it's important for me to mention in light of JK's recent tweets that Harry Potter is a trans man in this story, and that I will continue to write transgender characters of all sorts into any and all Harry Potter fanfiction that I write. I'll be making some updates to earlier chapter scenes in the story to make the lead-up a bit more clear. The fact that Harry is transgender is not the focus of this story, it is just another aspect of who he is so it will be mentioned here and there.


	16. Out of the Darkness, Into the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening:  
> Black-Crowned Night-Heron by Andrew Bird  
> Liar by The Arcadian Wild

Harry awoke in complete darkness, leaning against a wall and up to his neck in thick, viscous sludge. He took a sharp gasp as he opened his eyes only to find there was little difference, the last vestige of light long gone from the moment the trap door had closed overhead.   
  
"Tom?" he called out frantically, slipping in the muck as he struggled to free himself and get to his feet, "Tom are you there? Where are you?" Merlin, it was so dark. He couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. Glasses or not he was completely blind and entirely reliant on sound and touch to guide him.   
  
Harry bit down on the urge to hyperventilate, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths. He wasn't trapped, was he? Not for certain at least. "Right," he said to himself, "Focus. Where's the stairwell?"   
  
He slowly raised his hands out before him and felt along the wall as he inched along, trying to get a sense of the parameters of the space in his head. The wall seemed to undulate beneath his fingers like a living thing, slick and wet and pulsating with life. He wondered distantly if this is what it felt like being swallowed by a whale, feeling the muck sloshing about around him and the heat of stale air in his lungs. The floor beneath his feet felt uneven and had an odd, flesh-like give to its surface. The sludge around him smelled almost sulfurous and had the consistency of warmed tar that was unsettlingly close to body temperature.  
  
Something brushed past his knee under the surface and Harry couldn't hold back a scream as he struggled to lift his feet and stumbled through the mire, losing his grip on the wall in his panic. His shoe seemed to catch in the tar and he heard a sucking noise as it was torn from his foot, sending him staggering. The suction was too much for his sense of balance in the darkness. With a yelp of surprise he found himself pitching forward into the mud.  
  
He felt like he was drowning with the tar pressing in from all sides, unable to keep it out of his mouth and nose as he clawed for the surface. Harry broke through to stale air with a shaky gasp, coughing and fighting the urge not to throw up as he spat gobs of the stuff. The gunk in his mouth tasted disturbingly sweet with a cloying metallic tang to it that made him gag even as he struggled to clear his lungs. Crawling on his hands and knees as the darkness seemed to close in more tightly around him, Harry felt something soft but solid beneath his fingers and stopped sharply, feeling about along the floor of the basement until his hands once again met warm, delicate flesh. "What the hell--" 

The more he felt around the surer he was. There was a body there, lying not far beneath the surface of the sludge.   
  
All Harry could think in that moment was that he needed to get the both of them out of there. Scrambling around he felt along the body, discerning the shape of an arm and sliding his hand up over a smooth, masculine chest. He slid his other hand under the edge of the man's arm, attempting to lift him from the ground only to find he was stuck fast. There seemed to be sinewy, long strands attached to the body that cemented it down where it lay circling all around. Strange, bubbling masses cushioned the corpse from the hard stone floor. It seemed to be encased in a thin, filmy substance that clung to every curve of muscle and bone and no matter what he did it seemed as if nothing would free it from its encasement.   
  
Taking a shaky breath in a failing effort to maintain some sense of calm, Harry momentarily rested his hand on the man's chest. There was no way he could free this body from its imprisonment in these circumstances. He couldn't seem to find his wand, his glasses and his shoes had both been surrendered to the mire, and he had no idea where the exit was.  
  
"I'm sorry," he choked out, "I'll come back for you, I promise."   
  
The man's chest moved beneath his hand and drew in a watery breath. Harry's heart jumped into his throat as every hair on the back of his neck rose. 

This wasn't a body. Whatever this was, it was _alive._

Shakily, Harry began to feel along the man's chest towards his face, pausing when his fingers encountered something squishy that felt searingly hot to the touch. Despite the loss of his glasses he could still make out the subtly brightening glow of orange, flickering light shining faintly beneath the waters; it was the only light in the room and for the barest moment Harry saw that the dark silhouette of the stairs lay some distance off to his left.   
  
Horror curled in the pit of his stomach as he realized that the object beneath his hand felt soft and spongy but had curves and chambers to it...as if he were touching an exposed human heart. Even as this realization struck him the organ convulsed in his fingertips and a sharp, ear-splitting wail echoed from far above.  
  
Harry flung himself away as if burned at the sound, staggering in the direction of the stairwell. Bones crunched and crackled under his feet as he ran blindly through the muck and it sucked at his ankles. In that moment he was struck with the sick realization of exactly what had happened to the bodies of all those who had trespassed on Blackbarrow Manor's grounds.   
  
He nearly brained himself on the stairwell railing when he reached it. Harry clung to it and hauled himself up from the tar. His body came free of the sludge with a loud, sickening wet pop. He lay there on the stairs for a moment to catch his breath and momentarily delighted in his freedom before he began to drag himself up the steps one by one, hanging on desperately to the hand rail for purchase with slippery hands. With great effort he managed to reach the top of the stair, feeling along the ceiling for the edges of the trap door that he _knew_ was there. Even as he detected the underside of the door he felt the corners seep together and disappear beneath his fingers. He was sealed inside.  
  
Harry let out a furious scream, dragging his hands over the door and then pushing at it, trying to get some leverage with his back against the ceiling but nothing seemed to move it. The darkness was closing in on him from all sides as his breath quickened in his panic. It was as if the very blackness around him was consuming him, urging him to become a part of the whole and succumb into the dark mire below like so many before him. As dizziness hit him and he struggled to stay upright, Harry scrabbled at the underside of the trap door, fingernails cracking on ridges and bits of wood even as the darkness took him.  
  


* * *

  
Harry scrubbed at his eyes blearily, bedsheets shifting around him as he turned over and curled up on his side. He felt well-rested despite the intensity of his nightmares. How long had he been sleeping? Daylight was still seeping from between the curtains of his bedroom, sending stripes of brightness across his bed. His sheets were warm and soft and comforting, and he buried his face in his pillow and inhaled the scent of fresh lavender from a recent washing. Distantly Harry realized he couldn't really remember going to bed or what he'd been doing before he fell asleep, but here he was in his favorite set of pajamas, comfortable as could be. Still, his neck ached something awful and his fingertips felt raw and painful as if he'd touched a hot pan on the stove. Tiredly, he felt around for his glasses only to find that they weren't sitting on his bedside table where he usually kept them. His wand was, however.   
  
"Accio glasses," he called out, flicking his wand in the appropriate motion, but nothing came of it. "Yobbie?" he called, and the house elf appeared with a crack. "Have you seen my glasses anywhere?"   
  
"I have not, Mister Potter," Yobbie answered gravely, "Though I do believe you had a spare set tucked in your dresser."   
  
Sluggishly, Harry hauled himself up from the bed and trudged over to the dresser, fishing around until he found his glasses. When he popped them out of their case and carefully put them on, turning to face Yobbie, the house elf let out a sharp gasp.   
  
"Your hands! And what happened to your neck?"   
  
Harry blinked owlishly and held his hands out before him. His fingernails were cracked and ragged and the tips of his fingers had countless splinters embedded in them. "What the hell?"   
  
Yobbie took Harry's hands in his, eyeing the injuries suspiciously. "You do not remember how this happened?"   
  
"I..." The feeling of scratching at the underside of the trap door from his dream in terror came back to him. "I think I do," Harry said shakily. It hadn't been a dream, had it? His hands went to his neck but he immediately removed them at the sharp ache of painful bruises beneath his hands, accompanying the scrapes he'd given himself the other day in the Ministry.   
  
"I will be back with some alcohol and tweezers to deal with your injuries. Go take a seat in the bathroom and we will bandage your hands," Yobbie ordered, disappearing with a loud 'crack'. Uncertainly, Harry complied and made his way into the other room, sitting on the chair beside the bathtub. Yobbie returned not long after with the first aid kit Harry kept on hand 'just in case'. The old house elf dragged over a small stool opposite Harry's chair, plonking himself down on it and setting to picking out the numerous splinters in Harry's fingers with a pair of delicate tweezers. "How did this happen?" Yobbie questioned.   
  
"I found the basement and got stuck inside it," Harry admitted, "I don't remember getting out or going to bed." He didn't remember getting into his clean pajamas either and he was sure that he would have been absolutely filthy upon escaping that horrid place. Had someone bathed and dressed him? "You and Pella didn't help me after I got out, did you?" Harry questioned, and the look of confusion on Yobbie's face was more than enough of an answer.   
  
He couldn't imagine Tom carrying him up the stairs to his room but he must have, Harry realized. The clothes he'd been wearing were gone and the tub was clean, but the interior was still a bit wet as if it had been recently used. Had Tom _bathed_ him and washed the scrapes on his neck after taking the bandages off? That was a horrifying thought. If Tom hadn't known he was a transgender man before, he certainly did now that he'd seen him nude. Harry couldn't help but feel more than a little violated by the removal of his privacy and Tom taking such measures; he couldn't imagine the man doing something so caring out of anything but guilt, but Riddle didn't seem like the type to regret his actions.   
  
Well, regardless of what Tom had or hadn't seen, there was no going back now.   
  
Harry waited patiently while Yobbie plucked the last of the splinters from his fingers. "Harry Potter, you should grow your nails a bit so your nail beds aren't exposed like that," Yobbie advised. "Wash them in the sink with a bit of alcohol and use this," he added, holding up a bottle of dittany. "Either that or a healing spell for the scrapes and you'll be good as new."   
  
"Thanks for your help, Yobbie," Harry said, beaming at the old elf.  
  
Yobbie gave a loud 'harrumph'. "If you wasn't sticking your nose in dangerous places these things wouldn't be happening to you," he observed.   
  
"That's true," Harry admitted with a small smile. "Still, thank you." 

Yobbie ignored Harry's thanks, but he was sure he saw a bit of a smile as he turned away and exited the room, leaving him to his own devices.   
  
Harry got to his feet with a heavy sigh after performing a quick spell to grow his nails out a bit. After a quick trim he went over to the sink and carefully poured a bit of alcohol over his injuries, flushing them before turning the faucet on. It gave a loud, rattling gurgle and then spat black sludge into the bottom of the sink before running clean. Harry stared openly as the muck slowly was washed down the drain until there was nothing left.   
  
"That's concerning," Harry muttered, turning the water off and sending a cleaning spell down the pipes before running the water again. Whatever sludge there was in the basement was beginning to seep into other parts of the house, if it was getting into the piping. That simply brought his thoughts back to the body he'd stumbled across down there as he washed his hands off and did a minor healing spell on the cuts and scrapes.   
  
Why was it down there? Where did it come from, and _how_ was it existing in that kind of environment? Was Tom protecting it from discovery or harm by keeping the library locked away? Were there other such secrets in the other locked rooms?   
  
Shaking his head, Harry went out into his bedroom and grabbed a fresh set of clothes, hurriedly dressing. When he went to look for his shoes he found that they too--like his glasses--had not been recovered. "Guess I need a new pair of sneakers," Harry mumbled to himself as he pulled on a pair of sturdy dragonhide boots that had been a gift from Sirius, tying the laces tightly. Something told him that it was better for both him and for Tom if Harry took the time to give them both some space away from each other, after that last altercation--Harry certainly didn't want to face Tom after what had happened and he doubted Tom was feeling too positively about his presence here in this moment either. With that in mind, Harry grabbed an old backpack from his trunk and stuffed it with a few sets of clothing and, after a moment's consideration, neatly stored away the case files he'd brought home to study in one of its compartments. Remus and Sirius certainly wouldn't turn their nose up at the idea of him visiting for a few days, and there were many things that he wanted to discuss with Remus about the goings-on in the house.

"Pella, Yobbie," Harry called as he made his way down the stairs toward the first floor. The two house elves appeared on the landing, both looking more than a bit concerned. "I'm going to be heading out for a few days to London with my godfather. If you need anything at all come and find me, alright?"   
  
"Be safe Harry Potter," Pella urged, squeezing his hand momentarily before Harry headed down to the entry hall and grabbed his broom off the wall hook. "Pella will be watching for your return!" she called out hurriedly as he opened the door. 

Harry was immediately hit by a heavy gust of wind and snow as the door swung inward. "Oh this is going to be a fun ride," Harry groaned to himself, pausing and turning back only to find Pella standing beside him holding out a thick knit cap and mismatched scarf, and Yobbie proffering a pair of gloves. Harry couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, you two. I'll be back soon."   
  


* * *

  
"Harry!" Remus exclaimed upon opening the door, "What a pleasant surprise!"   
  
"Hey," Harry greeted, wrapping his arms around Remus in a tight hug. "Do you and Sirius mind if I crash here for a few days? I got into an argument with my um, roommate."   
  
"Of course," Remus agreed immediately, hugging Harry again. "Are you alright?"  
  
Harry paused. Was he, really?   
  
All of the events of the past few days came crashing back, and he swayed a bit from the impact of it. Was he okay, really? Had he been okay at all, that he could remember? Certainly not in recent times. "I...I don't know, actually," Harry said shakily. "It's been a long few days."  
  
Remus immediately looked concerned, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulder and guiding him inside to the parlor. "Have you eaten yet?" he questioned. At Harry's shake of his head, Remus held up a hand. "You get yourself settled, I'll fix us both some dinner. We'll talk on full stomachs."   
  
Harry dumped his backpack on the floor next to an old purple sofa before sinking into the cushions. "Where's Sirius?" he called out as Remus hurried past to the kitchen.   
  
"Oh, he's out on a job at Fabian's shop--they got a cursed doll set in stock that's forced them to lock down the store so he's dispelling that," Remus called back from the kitchen. "Does spaghetti sound good? I'm not up for anything fancy."   
  
"Spaghetti sounds great," Harry agreed, dropping his head back and just reveling in the familiarity of the room and the warmth that Sirius and Remus's presence in this house had brought to it. He closed his eyes and listened absently to Remus rattling about in the kitchen and the distant creaking of the most noble and ancient house of Black all around them. Eventually he became too warm in his coat and scarf, and peeled his way out of them, unwinding his scarf.   
  
Remus almost dropped the plates he was carrying at the sight of Harry's neck. "My god, what happened?" he questioned, rushing over and carelessly setting the pasta dishes aside on the coffee table.   
  
"It's not as bad as it looks--"   
  
"Well it looks _pretty bad,_ Harry, how did this happen?"  
  
"The bruises were Tom. The scrapes were me," Harry admitted, nerves causing him to tense. "I um, had an episode the other night while I was at work late."   
  
"An episode?"   
  
"I hallucinated," Harry admitted. "Perry found me and I'd scratched my neck bloody in the elevator. I'm taking some time to work from home on some older cases. I guess I need a mental health break," he laughed humorlessly. "And here I thought I was doing fine, but then this happened, and then Tom--" Harry's voice cracked. "I feel like I just keep fucking up and there's nothing I can do about it."   
  
"Oh Harry," Remus murmured, wrapping his arms around him, "It's okay. You're not alone."   
  
He didn't know why that was what made him crack, but after the first few tears escaped it was impossible to stop the flood. Harry tended to cry rarely if at all, and it took a great deal to get him to that point, but clearly he was closer to the edge than he'd previously thought. Remus merely held him tighter as he broke down. He wasn't sure how long he sat there in Remus's arms, but by the time he finally approached calm their food had long since gone cold.   
  
"Better?" Remus asked gently, squeezing Harry's shoulders.   
  
"Yeah. It feels so stupid, just losing it like this," he admitted, sniffing loudly and rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "I mean I'm an adult, I should be able to handle it on my own."   
  
"I'll tell you a secret Harry," Remus said, giving him a small smile, "None of us adults know what we're doing. Some of us are just better at faking it than others, but we're all bumbling along trying to do our best with the circumstances we have. Additionally, you are not the first and certainly won't be the last among us to deal with mental illness of some kind. We've got experience with these sorts of things, Sirius and I, and both of us have got your back. Now how about we reheat your dinner and I'll help heal up some of those scrapes and bruising on your neck, yeah?"   
  
"That's probably a good idea. I'm not great with healing spells," Harry admitted.   
  
Soon enough Harry's neck was feeling significantly better and the bruises had disappeared almost entirely. Remus waited until Harry was well into his meal before he spoke up again. "So how did you come to get the bruises? There was some kind of incident with the ghost?"   
  
"About that," Harry paused, finishing the bite he'd just taken and swallowing, "he's probably not a ghost. The best Hermione can suggest is that he's some kind of dark being that hasn't previously been categorized. He's super territorial and there are spaces in the house that I'm not allowed to go into that he's claimed as his own private rooms. I...pissed him off yesterday pretty badly by going into one of them and he got physical."   
  
"Harry, if you're at risk of physical harm by continuing to live there then maybe you should--"   
  
"No!" Harry interrupted sharply, leaning forward with wide eyes, "I mean, no. It's my house as much as it's his and I'm not going to give it up just because we had an altercation that I could have avoided if I hadn't gotten nosy. The house isn't unlivable with him in it and most of the time I actually enjoy being around him a lot. Tom's interesting, he's sardonic and bitter but he's also brilliant and fun to talk to, and I feel less alone with him around. And sure, there's a lot of unknowns around him. We don't know what exactly he is, we don't know what happened to him--though I'm starting to get a glimpse toward an answer and I'm not liking what I'm seeing--and we don't know why he became the way he is today. I'm not going to give that up just because we had a fight." Harry paused, thinking. "The more I think about it, I think Tom's protecting things in the rooms that he's locked in the house. I think there's keys to his past there or possibly evidence regarding his murder that's been overlooked. At the very least there are some hints as to _what_ he is and why, and I think he's afraid that anyone discovering that makes him vulnerable. For someone who's already died once he seems terrified that someone's going to come along and finish the job."   
  
Even as he said it he knew that it was true. At first he'd looked at Tom as a mystery, a knot that he needed to unravel in order to understand. He still felt that way somewhat, but there was more to Tom than what had happened to him and Harry _desperately_ wanted to know who Tom was beyond the confines of his circumstances. "He's traumatized," Harry realized. "He's reacting like a cornered animal whenever I get too close to something significant, but at the same time he can't help himself and gives me a hint of something personal or something relevant to his case. I don't know _why,_ but that's how he is."   
  
"Maybe he wants to maintain control over the flow of information," Remus suggested. "You're actively investigating his case, right?" Harry nodded. "Then you're bound to find out things about him--and possibly about those around him--that may not be very flattering."   
  
"He does seem to want to impress me," Harry hummed. "He's constantly offering helpful advice and he seems almost embarrassed at the state the house is currently in. He keeps showing me what it--and what he, too, used to look like back when he was alive." He paused, remembering the feeling of Tom's lips on his. "There's also the flirting."   
  
Remus raised his eyebrows. "Flirting?"   
  
"Ah, yeah," Harry laughed awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "He uh, kissed me a while back, and he makes comments now and then that could be perceived as being um, a bit flirty. I think it's just his personality, a lot of things point to him being like that when he was alive too. I told him in no uncertain terms that I'm not up for that and we should keep things professional, and he seems to be abiding by it." Harry paused. Was that the reason Tom had started doing little things around the house for him? Could it be that simple, that he's trying to impress Harry and be helpful in hopes of encouraging a sense of affection? Harry shook his head. That seemed a bit too over the top for Tom, it had to be a more practical reason. Still, the memory of that kiss and of the distant recollection of Tom bringing Harry up to bed and putting him to sleep lingered. Harry looked very intensely at his food, fighting down the blush rising in his cheeks. "I'm still mad at him and I think that we could both do with some space after fighting," Harry acknowledged.   
  
"That's probably wise," Remus agreed. "Setting boundaries is important in these situations as well, and careful enforcement is important when dealing with dark beings. But I have to ask, Harry, since you've brought it up. _Are_ you attracted to him?"  
  
Harry blinked owlishly. "Sorry?"   
  
"Are you attracted to him?" Remus repeated patiently.   
  
"Well I--of _course_ not, I mean why would I be--" Harry blustered in the face of Remus's serene expression, blushing increasingly red, "I mean, he's bloody terrifying, I couldn't possibly be attracted to him."   
  
"What you just described to me didn't sound like you find him to be all that terrifying," Remus observed. "If anything the majority of your relationship with him up until this recent incident seems to have been a positive one. I'd say that as long as you can both maintain your boundaries, you would probably continue to get along well with one another and in those sorts of situations, boundaries can...erode, let's say, over time and with increased familiarity." Harry found himself at a loss for words. Remus smiled at him. "There are plenty of people out there who would say there's something wrong with being attracted to nonhuman sentients, but then there's plenty of people out there who'd say that it's wrong of Sirius to be with a werewolf, or for you to be transgender. My main concern here is that if you're going to continue living in that house you want the relationship you have with the beings residing in it to be a peaceful one. So if by any chance you did happen to be attracted to Mr. Riddle, I'd suggest you keep that in mind if you are considering pursuing that."   
  
"I don't think that's something I need to worry about," Harry mumbled, fidgeting absently with a loose string on his shirt cuff. "There's no chance for anything to come of it."   
  
"Be that as it may, if you need to talk about anything of that nature I and Sirius certainly won't turn you away," Remus assured, wrapping his arm around Harry's shoulders and giving him a loose hug. "You can stay here for as long as you need to Harry."   
  
"Thanks Remus." Harry stared down at his half-eaten pasta, unsure as to exactly what he was feeling. He didn't know why he felt so defensive of Tom. He wasn't responsible for him, he didn't owe him anything. Even so, he couldn't shake the feeling that he shouldn't be here--he should be back at home, where he belonged. Regardless of whether Tom was furious with him and regardless of Remus's reassurances, staying here didn't feel any less like running away.   


* * *

  
Sirius's old bedroom was a welcome sight. The four-poster twin bed creaked ominously as Harry dropped down onto it and laid back, staring at the near-nude pinup posters Sirius had attached to the ceiling with a permanent sticking charm many years ago. He had a lot of great memories of nights spent over with his godfather working on any number of semi-dangerous projects together on the floor of this room. The wall shelf off to the left of the bed still held the old lego sets that they'd assembled together.   
  
It was difficult to sleep, despite his exhaustion. Harry's mind kept flicking back to the look in Tom's eyes as he'd wrapped his hands around his throat--a combination between blinding terror and bottomless rage. He truly had looked monstrous in that moment, but more than that he'd never looked more fearful in all the time Harry had spent with him. He'd never imagined that Tom could _be_ that scared; he'd always seemed to hold an air of impenetrable control over himself and his emotions, so confident in himself and his own power that he could never feel fear. But that was foolish, Harry realized. Tom may not advertise it, but he was trapped there as surely as Harry had been trapped in the basement, by the result of his own actions.   
  
Just as Harry began to feel like he may finally be able to nod off he heard the door open downstairs, followed by the sounds of quiet voices. Sirius was home, and Harry had no doubt that Remus was filling him in on everything Harry had told him. Idly, he wondered what Sirius would say. Sirius had always been the brash sort to rush in with wand at the ready and a spell on his lips, but this wasn't the sort of situation that could be fixed with brute force. Sighing, Harry turned and buried his face in his pillow, drifting off to the sound of rising voices down below.   
  


* * *

_  
There was sand beneath his feet, cool and wet despite the hot sun overhead. The smell of salt and fish filled his nose, and Harry turned to find himself looking out to sea. The water rushed forward, unstoppable and cold as it washed over his feet, dragging sand and bits of seaweed along with it. The air was clean and clear, and seagulls screamed overhead._

_"It's been some time since I've been this far from home," Tom said conversationally, walking up beside him. Merlin, he was beautiful. He'd rolled his loose pants up just below his knees and his white linen shirt hung open and unbuttoned, revealing an inviting expanse of bare skin and a slight, thin trail of hair that dipped below the hemline of his pants. "I forgot how much I loved the ocean," he added, scuffing his feet carelessly in the wet sand and sending chunks of it scattering ahead of them.  
  
"Where are we?" Harry questioned, turning to face him.   
  
"Not that far," Tom responded, his tone relaxed. "Look behind you, to the cliffs. The house is just there over the ridge." Harry turned as directed and found the cliffside rising from the distance behind them, an impossible monolith breaking the line of the horizon. "You really should explore the countryside past Canesworth, there's some very beautiful natural areas not far from home."   
  
"Is that why you've brought me here?" Harry questioned, "to put me at ease?"   
  
"Partially," Tom admitted, lapsing into silence. The water rushed over their feet, then pulled back out to sea like a slow exhalation of air, predictable and constant. "I won't apologize," Tom said, filling the silence. "You shouldn't have been in there."   
_

_"I won't apologize for wanting to know more about the person I'm living with," Harry retorted with just as much surety. "You were protecting it, weren't you?"_

_"Hm?"  
  
"The body in the basement."   
  
Tom stilled beside him. "You found that?"  
  
"Hard not to, it was the only thing in the muck besides all those bones--aside from my shoes and glasses now, I guess." _

_Tom gave a small, shallow chuckle. "You're lucky those were the only things you lost."_

_"And you're lucky you didn't kill me," Harry shot back, anger surging momentarily before it petered out into nothing. "I'm tired of feeling like I have to fight you to understand you."_

_Tom hummed to himself lightly, shoving one of his hands into his pocket as he walked casually alongside him. "I suppose I could stand to be a bit more inviting," he acknowledged reluctantly. "But some things may come of it. There are still those around me who stand to suffer should certain things come to light."_

_"So you're protecting your friends, then."_

_"I have a responsibility to those who were around me," Tom said._

_"I have a feeling that it's less about protecting other people and more about protecting yourself," Harry observed, "you don't strike me as the magnanimous sort who'd be looking out for other people before themselves."_

_"Rude," Tom tutted._

_"But am I wrong?" Harry questioned. T_ _om sighed, tilting his head back and staring up at the clear sky, bringing his hands up to clasp behind his neck. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat a bit watching the sunlight play over Riddle's face and the way his hair fell in a wavy mess as he shook his head._ _"What are you so afraid of? You've already died once." Tom seemed decidedly uncomfortable at this statement, looking anywhere but at Harry. Without a second thought, Harry reached out and caught Tom's hand in his, squeezing it tightly. "You said I'm the house's keeper, right? Well I'm also looking out for you, alright? Regardless of what you did in life, I've got your back now, okay?"_  
  
Tom looked back to Harry with wide eyes and for just a moment he could tell that Riddle wanted so badly _to believe him, but it still fell short. "Give me time," Tom said softly. "Give me time and maybe--maybe I will trust you."_

_Harry smiled brightly at Tom and squeezed his hand. "I can work with maybe."_

_They walked together hand in hand down the beach, simply enjoying the sound of the waves and the cool brush of water and wet sand over their feet. Tom paused momentarily as they were walking and bent down, fishing something out from the sand. "A seashell," he murmured, dipping it in the next incoming wave to wash off the sand, "I used to collect these on trips to the beach when I was younger. Here," he said, pressing it into Harry's free hand. Harry turned it over in his palm, drawing his thumb over the smooth, pearlescent interior of the shell. "When are you coming back?" Tom questioned, drawing Harry's attention away from watching the sunlight play over the shell's surface, "Will it be soon?"_

_Harry paused, considering. "Is it really safe for me to come back right now?"_

_"I have no intention to hurt you, Harry," Tom said hurriedly, catching Harry's hand in his once again. "I reacted in the moment, back then."_

_"And if I go into another room, what then?" Harry asked quietly._

_Tom's lasting silence gave him his answer. "Perhaps you should avoid going into them," he responded, after a short moment._

_"It's my house too, and I shouldn't have to fear for my life if I step wrong in my own home. Until you can tell me that no harm will come to me if I open the wrong door, I don't think I can come back."_

_The alarm on Tom's face at his sharp retort was swiftly replaced by something unreadable. "You have to come back eventually."_

_"Oh, do you want to test that?" Harry questioned, pulling his hand away from Tom's._

_"That's--" Tom huffed, annoyed. "Can't we just enjoy this moment?"_

_"You're not weaseling out of this that easily, Tom."_

_Tom glared at him, and for just a moment a bit of the specter that Harry was so familiar with now seemed to shine through, his eyes glittering with flecks of red within the soft brown. Tom was tense and defensive, and that never boded well. "I can't promise I won't react if I feel there's even the slightest threat to me," he said finally, "But if you go into one of my rooms and remove **anything** without my expressed permission, there will be consequences." _

_Harry hesitated, then nodded in acquiescence. "I think we can agree on that for now." He stopped walking for a moment, and Tom followed suit, waiting patiently. "Give me three or four days, and I'll come back. I need time to process everything...and to deal with a few things outside the house."_

_"That's acceptable," Tom agreed immediately._

_"Acceptable?" Harry snorted. "You're such a prick, you know that right?"_

_Tom sniffed. "And you are continually insulting, but you don't see me complaining about it too much."_

_He couldn't keep the grin off his face at that._

Harry awoke the next morning with a smile on his lips and a small white seashell clutched in his hand.


	17. A Pause for Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening for this chapter: 
> 
> Agoraphobia by Autoheart

Harry spent a good chunk of the morning with his thoughts drifting and fingers running over the ridges of the seashell he'd had in his hand upon waking. 

Something instinctual told him that the vivid conversation with Tom from the night before existed beyond his dreams. Like most other wix who passed through Hogwarts, Harry had studied prophetic dreams in his schooling. He'd never put much stock in it, but he _knew_ that this dream hadn't been a figment of his own mind. Somehow Riddle had managed to project it to him as he slept. Harry knew that this should be blaring all sorts of warning bells with everything he'd read of malevolent beings since encountering Tom. Everything he'd seen of Riddle seemed to be screaming 'danger, stay away!,' but something out of Harry's control always seemed to pull him back to the man. 

That didn't stop him from feeling a slight sense of loss that he wasn't waking in his own bed at home. 

Much as he'd felt oddly comforted by his conversation with Tom, Harry couldn't help but feel like he'd said only half of the things he'd wanted to. He was still angry and upset by what Tom had done both before and after he'd been trapped in the basement, and beyond that he was absolutely horrified with his findings down there with the darkness pressing in from all sides, deep in the sludge. 

As terrifying as the experience had been, Harry couldn't shake off the persistent thought that he needed to get back down there and find exactly what was brewing in the basement's depths. That body he'd encountered had still shown signs of life and if there was someone _living_ down there then he was obligated to return as soon as he was physically able. A small part of him whispered that considering the circumstances and what he'd gathered from his previous intrusion into that space, anything that had managed to survive latched to the floor and submerged in tar wasn't something that he wanted to disturb. Beyond that, if there was anyone who'd been in that state for any prolonged period they were likely beyond saving by this point.   
  
Taking three days for himself with so many unanswered questions rumbling about in his head coupled with the urgency of another life in the depths of the house felt so incredibly selfish, but Harry couldn't bring himself to return home immediately after everything that Tom had done. His thoughts still drifted back to the suffocating dark of the basement, but beyond the dark they lingered on what had happened after; that Tom had carried him up to the bath, that he'd stripped him and washed the signs of his trauma away before putting him to bed. Harry couldn't stop thinking about Tom's hands on his unconscious body; what he might have seen, what he might have thought in those moments. He hadn't mentioned a word about it in Harry's dream, but that didn't mean he hadn't realized that he was transgender regardless of whether he had the words for it or not. Either way Harry knew he was in for a long and difficult conversation with Tom when he finally decided to return home.

Harry only pocketed the shell when he was pulled from his thoughts by the rumble of Sirius's motorcycle in the backyard.

The engine shrieked like a screaming tea kettle, then faltered and sputtered out. Once again the morning was overtaken by the sounds of the neighborhood and the chirping of birds from the feeders Remus had out back. He distantly could hear Sirius swear and kick the tailpipe of his bike before proceeding to apologize profusely for 'hurting' it. The motorcycle let out a perfunctory growl from its engine and fell silent.

Harry scrubbed at the back of his neck and gathered his hair up in a messy bun, readjusting his shirt and trying to make himself look a bit more presentable. He'd slept in his clothes the night before. He'd gotten the set of pjs out that he'd packed and was about to change when his thoughts flashed back to the moment he realized that Tom had dressed him, that Tom had seen his naked form. He couldn't bring himself to change in that moment, and had gone to bed in his clothes still feeling stripped raw and exposed. He wasn't ready to let Remus or Sirius know about that, not when he was still struggling to process it himself. Hopefully they wouldn't ask any questions about his rumpled outfit. 

Heading downstairs, Harry wandered about in the back halls in search of Remus (who was most certainly awake by this hour if Sirius was also up). He found him leaning against the door frame looking out into the backyard at Sirius as he worked on his bike. A small smirk played across his lips as he sipped his coffee. "Morning Harry," he said cheerfully.  
  
"Morning Remus," Harry greeted, glancing out into the backyard. "Sirius is up early, huh?" 

"His bike's been giving him a bit of difficulty; it can be a tad contrary at times and he's trying to make some repairs to a couple of worn-out pieces that he can't find parts for, so he's in a mood." Remus's lips curled. "I'm going to cheer him up, just you watch." 

"Really," Harry hummed, well aware of the meaning in the familiar mischief sparking in Remus's eyes. 

"Hold my coffee, Harry." Accepting this small burden, Harry watched as Remus crouched in the doorway, flicking out his wand and whispering a spell just as Sirius's ire peaked and he aimed another kick at the vehicle. As his foot connected the tailpipe let out a rumble of warning. Sirius only had enough of a moment to look up in horror and catch sight of Remus snickering in the doorway before a cloud of glitter vomited out the tailpipe in great gouts of purple smoke. When the smoke cleared Sirius was sparkling from head to toe. 

"REMUS!!!!" Sirius roared, lunging past Harry as Remus turned tail and fled into the house, laughing. When Sirius rounded the corner chasing after him, he was grinning. 

Harry smiled to himself and stole a sip of Remus's coffee as he listened to Sirius shouting increasingly silly threats as he pursued his husband deep into the house.

* * *

Remus and Sirius left Harry to his own devices for the most part. Harry spent the morning hours wandering around the old townhouse, eventually perusing the library in search of anything that might be useful before giving up and heading to the backyard to hang out with Sirius while he worked on his bike. Sirius welcomed him with a nod and a grin and handed him a wrench and they seamlessly fell into working together as they had so many times before on the old vehicle. 

"I'm not going to press you if you're not up for chatting about it, but Remus told me some shit happened," Sirius said out of the blue, blundering his way into conversation indelicately. 

Harry snorted. "That's putting it lightly." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah," Harry agreed, lying on his back next to the bike to angle his wrench just right. "I got into one of the locked rooms in the house. Tom found out, flipped his lid and locked me in the basement until I passed out. There's something real horrifying down there." 

"Planning to check it out when you go back?" 

"Yeah," Harry agreed casually, though he could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck at the thought of descending down into the dark once more. 

"Need some backup?" 

Harry paused, glancing around the bike at Sirius. "Really?" 

"Course Harry, Remus and I've always got your back." 

Harry grinned, but it slowly melted off his face. "I don't know that that's a good idea. Tom might not react well to someone he sees as an outsider going down there." 

"Well then maybe that's a sign that I need to be visiting more, so I'm not an outsider anymore," Sirius said simply, gesturing with his screwdriver at Harry. 

"...I'll think about it," Harry agreed, and Sirius nodded in acceptance. "I don't know that I can really trust Tom around other people yet," he admitted after some consideration. "When I was in the basement...there were bones all over the floor. I'm...not sure that they were human bones, but I don't have high hopes. Tom's told me that some folks who used to follow his political stance sometimes trespass on the property and he um, deals with them. It's been implied--" 

"That he kills them?"   
  
"Yeah," Harry agreed weakly. "Normally I'd immediately bring it to Ministry attention, but we don't know the identities of anyone who's gone missing who may have met that end and I don't have hard evidence. Even if I did...I'm not sure that bringing a bunch of Aurors or creature management personnel onto the property would result in anything other than more deaths." 

"That's a tough situation, Harry," Sirius observed, rapping the screwdriver against the tailpipe absently. "I'm gonna be frank with you, alright?" Harry nodded, and Sirius stood, throwing a leg over the motorcycle and dropping down into its seat. "The Ministry does not have a good track record when dealing with magical creatures, spirits, or beings that have the capacity to do harm. Regardless of circumstance they bring the full might of the law down on the heads of anyone and anything that stands the slightest chance of being a danger. By which I mean that they will execute any being that meets that definition indiscriminately regardless of circumstance. Remus and I have lost a couple friends in the werewolf community that way." 

Harry stared in open horror, but Sirius just looked tired and sad. "They'd just try to kill him?" 

"Yup. And considering that Riddle's some kind of dark being with a history of defensive behavior, I'm sure he'd respond in kind to any attempts to take him out and the whole place would probably go down in the process along with him."

"Well that's definitely the last thing I want to happen. I need to do some more investigation in and around the house and get some solid answers on what happened to the people who trespassed, but in the meantime I told Tom that I'd deal with any further trespassers on my own to prevent him from doing worse to them." 

"I could help you with putting up barriers and alarms around the property," Sirius suggested, "We could get Bill in on it, they'll definitely have some good ideas for wards." 

"That would be a huge help. Thanks," Harry said, grinning. It might not be the most morally appropriate solution for an upstanding straight-laced Auror, but it seemed like the best solution he was going to get. 

The rest of the day passed surprisingly quickly. It seemed that there was always some other task that Harry was invited to do, whether it was helping Sirius clear out the old backyard shed, preparing lunch with Remus, or brainstorming with Sirius about what to do with the mounted house elf heads that Sirius and Remus had stuck up in the attic upon moving into the place.   
  
"Reggie said that it would be disrespectful to burn them, but they're horrible," Sirius complained, staring suspiciously at the box of heads he'd stuffed into a corner of the attic.   
  
"They should probably be un-mounted and buried properly," Harry suggested. "I doubt your mum and dad actually disposed of the rest of their bodies properly considering they did this with the heads, but we should lay what remains of them to rest." Harry shook his head, closing the box up. "I couldn't imagine doing this, it's barbaric."   
  
"Yeah well, that's my parents for you," Sirius said, shrugging. "We've been living here for a few years now since they died and Remus and I are _still_ finding all sorts of horrible things around the house. Reg helps some with the mess now and then, but he's usually busy with my niece so it falls to us to deal with their leftover garbage."  
  
"It wouldn't be such a difficult task if you didn't keep putting it off," Remus chided from another part of the attic, hidden behind a pile of precariously-stacked old furniture.   
  
"Regulus has a house elf, doesn't he?" Harry questioned absently, opening another box.   
  
"Yeah, Kreacher. He's a crotchety, mean old thing. Really absorbed my family's teachings. Says all sorts of terrible things all the time, and he hates me."   
  
"Admittedly you aren't very nice to him so I can see why he'd hate you," Remus commented.

"I guess," Sirius shrugged. "We keep our distance from each other and we're fine."   
  
"I really like having house elves sharing a home with me," Harry said, "they've both warmed up to me a lot and it helps fill all that empty space to have other creatures living there too. The whole placement agency was awful though, I really hope that Hermione is able to get that legislation passed to get places like that abolished and the elves freed."  
  
Sirius shrugged. "We'll see what happens, but don't hold your breath." 

"Have you ever considered taking on a freed house elf?" Harry questioned.  
  
"Not really, Remus and I do alright on our own."   
  
"You do have more than enough space," Harry noted, "and you've got the finances that you could pay them properly for their time."   
  
"Are you paying your house elves?" Sirius questioned.   
  
"I pay them every week," Harry said, dropping the box he'd been sorting through over in the appropriate stack before moving on to a rather large and imposing wardrobe. "Pella just went and got some nicer bedsheets for herself with her money. Yobbie doesn't seem to keen on spending his, he seems to be hoarding it for a rainy day. I don't think he feels like his situation is permanent because he's been uprooted so many times, so he's still kind of living in survival mode. I'm hoping that with time he'll calm down and feel like he can settle in."  
  
"I don't know," Sirius hummed. "I don't have the best experience with house elves."   
  
"Do you mean you don't have the best experience with them, or that you don't have the best experience with Kreacher?" Harry questioned pointedly, "If it's the second then you shouldn't be judging an entire species based on your actions with a single individual. You wouldn't be happy if someone who had a negative experience with a werewolf acted like that toward Remus." 

Sirius momentarily looked annoyed at being chastised, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You've got a point." 

"I do," Harry agreed. "When I bring it up I'm bringing it up less based on how useful it is to you to have a house elf, and more on the terms of 'what can you do to help house elves in need considering the centuries of mistreatment your family has subjected house elves to," He pointed out. "A lot of people free house elves when they're too old to take care of themselves or continue the labor they've been putting in for whatever family had them, and they end up left to fend for themselves without any of the resources to do so. They're supposed to have symbiotic relationships with humans because they usually cohabitate in occupied homes, but wizards have twisted that and taken advantage of them for a long time and we haven't even begun to correct that."  
  
"Sounds like you've been talking to Hermione about this," Sirius observed. 

"I haven't that much actually, I just did my research and actually talked to the house elves I interact with," Harry said as he struggled to open the wardrobe. It didn't seem like it was locked, but the doors were stuck as if they'd been glued shut. "Doors must be misaligned or something," Harry muttered.  
  
"Which cabinet is it?" Remus questioned, glancing around a stack of boxes.   
  
"It's an old wardrobe," Harry called back just as the door began to budge.  
  
Harry didn't catch a glimpse of Remus's eyes going wide as he lunged around the corner calling out, "Harry don't, that one's got a boggart in it--" He was far too focused on the small hand that clasped the edge of the door as Patty Weasley stepped out of the wardrobe, her head lolling on a bruised, broken neck as she reached for him, blue-tinted lips turned down in a disappointed frown.   
  
"Riddikulus," Harry said shakily, trying to hold his wand firm despite trembling hands.  
  
There was nothing you could make funny about a dead child. Not now, not ever, and especially not when it was Patty Weasley.   
  
"Where have you been?" Patty questioned, stepping towards him. Harry stumbled back hurriedly, putting as much distance between himself and the boggart as he could. His back hit a pile of boxes that rocked dangerously, and Harry momentarily glanced up as they shifted above his head before refocusing on the child before him to find that she'd crossed the distance as swiftly as he'd fled from her and stood at his feet. "I waited for you," Patty's voice echoed.   
  
"Riddikulus," Harry croaked, but he couldn't even bring himself to raise his wand properly. Everything around him seemed to disappear except for the little girl standing before him as she reached out for him.   
  
Sirius lunged and the child was knocked back across the floor as his godfather threw himself between Harry and the boggart.   
  
"It's your fault," Patty accused just as her form began to shift.   
  
"Stay there Harry, I've got this," Sirius ordered, twirling his wand and catching it, but his bravado was replaced with surprise when the boggart reformed and he was left with a perfect reflection of Remus standing before him.   
  
"This isn't working out," said boggart-Remus, "I need more stability in a relationship and you're just not enough of an adult to handle this. It's time to grow up, Sirius. Tonks may be younger but she's still more of an adult than you are."   
  
Sirius made a small choked noise but quickly recovered, pointing his wand and roaring out, "RIDDIKULUS!" The not-Remus convulsed in on itself and suddenly there was a young boy standing there in Gryffindor robes, scowling at Sirius with his hair standing on end. Sirius snickered and the boggart recoiled, stumbling back toward the wardrobe but not quite all the way back inside.   
  
Remus stepped in then, straight-backed and confident as the boggart momentarily shifted into a glowing full moon. "Riddikulus," Remus snapped. The moon became a beach ball, which Remus sent ricocheting back into the wardrobe. He closed the doors behind it hurriedly and sealed them with a permanent sticking charm. "There!" he sighed, all the strength melting from his posture into his usual tired, slumped stance as he turned to face the two of them. 

"Well, I think we could all do with a break after that little interlude," Remus suggested in a tone that said there would be no argument.  
  
Remus beckoned the two of them down to the kitchen where he fixed them all a cup of hot chocolate, settling them down at the kitchen table. Sirius stared single-mindedly down at his cup, unblinking and a bit unfocused as he held the steaming mug in his hands. Harry didn't feel much better off than Sirius looked, but he felt like he should be pleased that he didn't feel completely out of his mind with terror after that encounter. 

"The noticeably broken neck was a new feature," Harry said absently. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Remus questioned gently.   
  
"Not really," Harry admitted. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about _any of it,_ because all he could think about was how guilty he felt for bungling the case and being removed from it. He'd squandered his only opportunity to make sure that Patty's killer faced justice for what they'd done.

"You're not obligated to talk about it if you don't want to," Remus reassured him, "Just take some time to do what you need to do, whether that's finding something else to focus on, or processing what happened. Sirius and I are here for you in whatever way you need us to be, alright?" 

Harry nodded sullenly.   
  
"Sirius," Remus said quietly, moving over to stand by his husband, "we should probably talk about what happened with your boggart. Privately." 

Sirius slowly rose to his feet, looking as if he was dragging a great weight along with him, shoulders hunched over and curled in on himself. For all that he looked exhausted and miserable, Sirius reached out and squeezed Harry's shoulder reassuringly before following Remus out of the room.  
  


* * *

  
Late evening found Harry curled up on the parlor sofa with his arms wrapped around his legs in the same position he'd been occupying for the past four hours. Dinner had been a subdued affair: everyone picking at their food with little by the way of appetite. Remus and Sirius had retired to another part of the house to talk, and Harry hadn't seen them since. He couldn't keep his thoughts from swirling back to Patty, no matter what he tried to do. Distraction hadn't worked, and eventually he just gave in and let his brain take him where it wished...which turned out to be a very dark place. 

"--ort."   
  
"Huh?" Harry said, glancing over as Sirius dropped down on the sofa next to him and held out a glass.   
  
"I said 'hey sport,'" Sirius responded with a smile that didn't quite manage to hide how heavily the day was weighing on him. "Fixed myself one and figured you could do with one too," he added, shaking the glass in his outstretched hand lightly. "Not the best thing to go for when you're feeling rough, but it helps a bit now and then."   
  
Harry accepted the proffered glass and took a small sip. He was met with a bittersweet sourness layered over straight firewhiskey. "That's sharp," he observed.   
  
"Wakes you up a bit, right?" Sirius said, raising his own glass and admiring the amber liquid inside.   
  
"A little," Harry agreed, taking another sip. "I aught to warn you ahead of time that I'm a sad drunk," he informed his godfather.   
  
"Well that's part of the point, when you're drinking after anything rough--to be sad in good company."   
  
Harry nodded, settling back into the sofa a bit more. They didn't speak for some time, simply accepting one another's company and enjoying the slight burn of the the alcohol. It was Sirius who spoke first.   
  
"So. That was a rough one." 

"Yeah," Harry agreed sullenly. "A rough one." 

"Still thinking about her, huh?"   
  
"All the time." 

Sirius was silent for a moment, thinking over what he was going to say next. "It's a difficult situation to approach, and it probably feels pretty empty for me to say it, but you've got to take a step back from it all. Feel what you're feeling, but blaming yourself for how things turned out isn't going to help anyone or anything, least of all you or her."  
  
"It's one thing to know that and another thing to do it," Harry responded. "I don't actively go looking for information about the case, you know. I haven't in a long time, really," Lies, lies, but Harry had become very good at lying to himself over the years, well enough that perhaps if he said it often enough he might even believe it to be true. "It seems like it's more that this case doesn't _want_ to let me go. I know that sounds completely barmy, but I keep seeing her everywhere I look."

Sirius gave a heavy sigh. "Damn it, I'm not really cut out for these sorts of conversations. I honestly have no idea what to do or what advice to give short of 'let's see if we can't find you a mind healer, maybe,' but that's up to you if you want to go that route. I can tell you from personal experience that it helps put things in perspective for sure to talk to somebody else. I'm a little out of my depth here."   
  
"Maybe I don't really need advice about it right now," Harry suggested quietly, "Maybe I just need you to, y'know, be here for me?" 

"That I can do, and gladly," Sirius agreed, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders and squeezing him tightly. "That I can do."  
  
Sleep was a long time coming, but Sirius stayed by his side until he was so exhausted that he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.   
  


* * *

_The first thing he was cognizant of was the darkness, pressing in from all sides around him, and the fact that his lungs were bursting. Harry thrashed about but it felt like his body was moving through quicksand, the weight of the sludge around him pulling at his skin and his clothes. He couldn't hold his breath any longer, and even as he fought towards the surface, disoriented and blind, the tar seeped into his mouth and nose._

_A different kind of blackness was beginning to pull at the edges of his vision, and he had the horrible realization that he was suffocating._

_Sharp fingers grasped onto his shoulders him forward through the muck. Harry thrashed and fought but his assailant was undeterred. Suddenly, his head broke the surface and he found himself caught between gasping in a fresh breath of the musty air of the basement and choking on the sludge that he'd inhaled. The hands on his arms shifted and he lashed out in the dark, coughing and struggling for air. Distantly he registered someone yelling at him to 'stop' but he couldn't, he wasn't safe, he was trapped and the black pitch was consuming him alive._

_Tom's hand met his cheek in a stinging, resounding slap and Harry stopped fighting, too surprised to react._

_"Breathe, Potter!" Tom snapped, and a hand collided with his back. There was some force beyond the motion that pushed through his skin and into his lungs. Harry felt the sludge he'd inhaled force its way right back up his windpipe. He only had a split moment to turn his head to the side, half-clinging to Riddle in the darkness as he threw up the gunk that was expelled from his airway. "Alright, better," Tom announced, "now let's get you back upstairs, it looks like you passed out and had a bit of a fall."_

_Riddle slipped his arms under Harry's back and his legs, plucking him out of the sludge with ease and bodily lifting him.  
  
"My shoes," Harry heard himself say distantly.   
  
"Worry about them later," Tom retorted sharply, "there are more pressing things to deal with." With that said, Tom set off up the stairs, carrying him out from the basement and blinking into the soft light that filtered through the dusty windows of the library. The black tar seemed to slough off of him, and Harry was sure that the steps would have been slippery for any normal man but Tom had no difficulty. The trap door slammed shut behind them as soon as they were out. Harry wasn't able to hold back the small sob of relief at being freed from the dark, clinging shakily to Tom as he left the library and headed upstairs.   
  
He faded in and out after that, catching small glimpses of the stairwell passing by, opening his eyes at one point to find his face buried against the ashy fabric of Tom's robes. It was strangely comforting to be held like this, though in truth Tom had been the cause and the source for his terror up to this point.   
  
Harry's vision faded, and when he came to it was to Tom carefully unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it over his head. He'd been dropped into what he distantly recognized to be the bathtub in the ensuite off his bedroom. Hot, steaming water was filling the bath, the white porcelain stained with numerous dark, sticky handprints, and Tom was reaching down and unbuttoning his pants.   
  
"N-no," Harry stuttered out. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and it was hard to talk. His teeth were chattering, small tremors running through him despite the heat of the water, "Don't--"   
  
"Can you take them off yourself? We have to clean you up, this material is toxic for humans."   
  
It took far longer than Harry would have wanted for him to finally raise his hands and start fumbling with the buttons of his pants with shaking fingers. After the third failed attempt Tom brushed his hands away and said, "I've got it."   
  
"D-don't...don't l--" Harry stumbled over his words, his voice sounding raspy and embarrassingly weak to his own ears.   
  
"I won't look, but we need to work fast here."   
  
There was no way Harry could hide the obvious relief that Tom's words brought, but he still couldn't stop shivering despite the scalding bathwater as Tom removed the last of his clothes, keeping his eyes focused on Harry's face. He felt disconnected from himself, as if he were another person watching this all unfold from another corner of the room. Tom hurriedly scrubbed down his unresponsive body, drained the tub, and refilled it with fresh, clean water and repeated the process. It was rushed and indelicate, and Harry distantly thought that he should be feeling something with how raw his skin looked when Tom was done cleaning the black ichor from his body, but soon enough the water was gurgling down the drain and Tom was wrapping him in a towel and lifting him from the bath. He moved quickly and Harry could feel himself sinking through Tom's grip as his hold on physicality wavered. He set him down not far from the bath. Harry sat there, staring dully at the stains on the edge of the tub, uncomprehending. Long-fingered hands ran gently through his hair, brushing the long, wiry strands out of his face, soon replaced by the careful strokes of a brush. After so much panic and terror, the feeling of Tom brushing out his hair was oddly soothing.   
  
"Why?" Harry croaked out when he could finally manage to put together the strength to speak.   
  
"Why what?"   
  
"Why are you doing this?"   
  
The brush paused in his hair. "When I found you I just...reacted. There wasn't any thought or consideration for the fact that you would be the one bearing the brunt of my fury." There was a beat of silence before Tom continued, "I could have killed you. I've always known that human life is fragile, but comparative to my own strength in this state you wouldn't stand a chance against me if I failed to exercise restraint. I forget sometimes that you, as well, are fragile. I was not taking that into account and you almost paid the price for my oversight."   
  
"So you're saying you regret it."   
  
"I'm saying I regret the intensity of my response. I'm not saying that my response wasn't justified," Tom retorted. Harry winced as the brush pulled at a knot in his hair. Tom began methodically working at untangling it. "This house--and everything it contains--are all I have left of both my life and of myself. We all have parts of ourselves that we hide from other people. Mine are just more...physical, I'd say, than your average person's."   
  
"Do you count all the bones of those you've killed as part of yourself then, too?"   
  
"I would say that matter is a discussion for another day."   
  
"Of course you'd say that," Harry mumbled. His eyes were beginning to droop as the weight of the day's events bore down on him.   
  
"Almost done. Let's get you to bed so you can rest." Tom's voice was soft and soothing. Harry blinked, and found that a set of his pajamas had been placed in his lap. "Do you need help?" Tom questioned. Harry shook his had blearily and with some small amount of difficulty managed to get his arms through the sleeves of the top.   
  
"I've got it," Harry muttered sourly, noticing that Tom was watching him. "Can you look away?" Tom nodded, clasping his hands neatly behind his back and turning his head. Harry fumbled a bit, but after a moment of struggling managed to get the pajama pants on. He leaned back in the chair, struggling to keep his gaze focused. "How hard did I hit my head?"   
  
Tom glanced back toward him. "I'm not sure, but the fact that it was hard enough that you're struggling to stay conscious suggests you should drop by Mungo's tomorrow if you're alright to travel. I'll keep an eye on you while you rest."   
  
Harry couldn't find the strength in him to argue with that, though he wasn't sure he wanted to be near Tom right now. He was too tired to care and he ended up just nodding along in agreement. The motion sent a wave of nausea through him, and he realized that the dull throbbing in the back of his head was probably from the injury. His head was pounding now that he'd moved it so suddenly, and he curled over on himself in his seat as he fought the urge to vomit.  
  
"Harry?" Tom questioned, and he felt a light touch of the specter's hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you to bed. Can you stand?"   
  
Harry let out a small groan as he lifted his head and slowly stood. The moment his legs started to give Tom was there holding him up and supporting him to his bed. The pain in his head was overwhelming as he laid back on his bed, and he bit down against the urge to cry as his eyes teared up. "You're alright," Tom murmured, resting a warm hand against his forehead. He could see the spark of magic running down Tom's arm and through his fingers, and the pain began to recede into a numbing cold. "Sleep," Tom urged, his voice distant and ephemeral as Harry's eyes drifted shut and the black, consuming dark that came with unconsciousness swept over him.   
  
_

* * *

Harry bolted awake and nearly fell off the couch in his panic, half-clinging to the arm rest to hold himself steady. Sirius was curled up across from him and dead to the world, a half-empty bottle of firewhisky hugged to his chest and an empty glass abandoned on the floor beside him. Scrubbing at his eyes, Harry stumbled to his feet and went over to the window, glancing out. The sun hadn't yet risen and the sky was overcast, but the deep pinks and yellows that lit up the clouds hinted that it wouldn't be long in coming. 

The seashell from the night before felt heavy in his pocket. Harry fished it out and turned it over in his hands, dragging his thumb over the soft ridges of its exterior absently as he mused on his most recent dream. It was strange, really, that he recalled this now. If Tom was responsible for these recollections, he must have some sort of preternatural sense of Harry's own feelings and he wasn't sure how to feel about that. It should probably scare him more than it did to consider the implications of that, but he found he didn't want to let go of the reassurance he'd managed to glean from his dreams. Harry squeezed the shell in his hand until it bit into his palm as he looked out into the sleepy deserted street outside. Tom had never been one for boundaries. Was it possible that his own concerns were null? Did Tom already know his own secrets, somehow?   
  
One thing was certain to Harry. He would have to go home to get any real answers. Much as he wanted to stick to the time he'd set, the urge to rush back was strong. He'd never been a particularly patient person. Letting out a heavy sigh, he pocketed the shell and went to wake Sirius. 


	18. Cold Fire and Deep Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening for this chapter:  
> -The Gravel Road (score) by James Newton Howard  
> -Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Alexandre Desplat  
> -Variation 15 by Benjamin Wallfisch, Edward Elgar, Hans Zimmer

At first Harry decided not to wake Sirius immediately, focusing instead on fixing a substantial breakfast for everyone since he doubted he'd be able to get back to sleep and he'd likely head out as soon as everyone was up and about. Two platefuls of blueberry pancakes and a brewing pot of coffee later, he couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't right.

Sirius stumbled into the kitchen not long after, blearily rummaging about until he produced two mugs and poured out coffee for both of them. Harry waved and flipped another pancake over in the pan, only for it to land half off the edge with uncooked batter slopping over onto the stove. 

Something wasn't right.

"Wow Harry, you didn't need to do all this," Sirius exclaimed even as he forked a few flapjacks over onto a plate for himself and poured a hefty helping of syrup over the top.

Harry shrugged. "Needed to keep busy. It worked out," he explained, trying to salvage the half of the pancake that had managed to stay inside the pan.

"Here, why don't you take a break and eat something, you must be hungry."

Not long after, Harry found himself staring at a plate of pancakes, unable to get himself to eat. The unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach was rising up his throat with the taste of nausea coating his tongue. "I think I need to go home," Harry said, breaking the comfortable silence.

Sirius glanced up. "You sure? You can stay here for as long as you need to, you know."

"I know, I just...I don't know why but something's off. I want to check on the house elves," he excused. He also wanted to check on Tom, but he wasn't about to say as much. Sirius seemed to gather what went unsaid regardless, looking at him over his food momentarily and then nodding along.

"Alright. How about we finish up with this, throw the leftovers in the fridge for Remus, and I'll bring the bike around front?"

"I can just apparate," Harry suggested.

"Nah, let me drive you up! I haven't been to visit in ages anyway, I might as well pop up for a spell."

"Are you sure you don't have a hangover? You drank a lot." 

"My hangover's not that bad, I just need some coffee and I'll be good to go," Sirius professed, clapping a hand to his chest. 

Harry hid a small smile. He had a feeling that Sirius was insisting because he wanted to check in on him and make sure he was safe at home, and he wasn't about to tell him no after everything that had happened. "Alright," he relented, setting about forcing himself to get a bit of food down for the trip ahead. Sirius beamed back at him and set about hurriedly scribbling out a note to Remus, sticking it onto the kitchen door where he'd easily find it. 

* * *

The drive back to Canesworth was uneventful beyond Sirius blasting past the speed limit most of the way, dodging between passing cars and sometimes jumping directly over them altogether. Harry found himself thanking whoever was listening that notice-me-nots could be built into items such as brooms, and motorcycles, and Ford Anglias with some finagling. 

"This really is a beautiful place when you get past the dumpy half abandoned houses!" Sirius shouted back to him as they raced down the highway, the wind whipping past at top speed, "Too bad they went and built this highway here!" 

"It's all back roads up by the house!" Harry called back, "But the view from the cliffs is great! You should bring your camera next time!"

He couldn't tell but he had a strong feeling that Sirius was grinning. "Good to know I'm invited back, I'll drop in and surprise you sometime!" 

Harry wasn't sure how Tom would handle surprise company, but maybe if it was someone he'd met before it wouldn't be so bad. Hopefully the specter would be in a somewhat decent mood when they finally arrived. As beautiful as the drive down the coast was, Harry still couldn't shake the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. If anything it seemed to deepen and solidify the closer they got to the manor. His discontent was given shape when they turned down the back road and slowed down as they reached his neighbor's little shack just before the bend leading up to the manor. 

Otto was (as seemed to be usual for him) seated in his porch rocker with his dog at his side, eyes scanning the area around him, his shotgun neatly resting across his knee within easy reach. Harry raised his hand to wave, then lowered it a bit as they passed closer and he realized Otto was waving him over. 

"Stop here for a second, I've got to talk to my neighbor," Harry called out to Sirius. The bike slowed to a halt and Harry was off it in an instant. 

"Is everything alright?" Sirius asked. 

"Not sure, my neighbor's got his gun out." 

"Aren't those illegal?" 

Harry waved Sirius's question off and approached his neighbor's front porch. "Hey Otto," Harry greeted brightly, unclipping his helmet and holding it under his arm. 

"You've been away for a bit, haven't ye?" Otto questioned gruffly. 

"Yeah, I was visiting my godfather's family for a couple days. What's up?" 

"Heard some buffoon crashin' about in the woods last night. I went out and fired a couple shots off and spooked him away, but you should be on the lookout. I doubt our friend up the way is too happy about it," Otto advised, gesturing back toward the manor. 

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. "Was it one of them? You haven't been bothered, have you?" 

Otto let out a laugh and patted his gun. "No, whoever it was wasn't stupid enough to mess with me but it definitely wasn't one o' them that I've seen before. Some wiry blonde git prancin' around up the hillside, took off when he spotted me." 

"You think it might've been Lucius again?" Sirius questioned, walking up next to Harry, "He fits the description." 

"Could be," Harry agreed. 

Otto glanced up and down at Sirius, taking in the full picture of his wavy black hair, face and hand tattoos, ripped jeans and leather jacket and asked, "You supposed to be in some kinda biker gang or something, or are you one of those punk rocker types?" 

Harry held back a grin. "Otto, this is my godfather, Sirius." 

Otto raised one eyebrow. "Are you now." 

Sirius, unperturbed, grabbed Otto's hand and shook it heartily. "I'm sure you'll be seeing me here and there, I come up to visit Harry now and again." 

"Right," Otto agreed. 

"Well I aught to be getting up there to check that everything's alright," Harry said, "but let me know if you need anything at all, alright? I'm always around." 

"Will do," Otto agreed, tipping his head in Harry's direction. 

"Sirius, we need to get up to the house," Harry said quietly as they returned to the bike. "The trespasser may be gone, but I want to make sure they weren't...detained." 

"You got it," Sirius acknowledged, clipping his helmet on and revving the engine.

They circled round on the back road until they were just out of sight of Otto's shack before flipping the disillusionment charm on the bike and taking to the air. They cleared the area with little difficulty, but from above Harry could see that there was a strange, thick fog permeating the wooded hillside below that seemed to be originating from the house itself. 

"That's concerning," Harry observed. "We'd best get down there and see what's going on." 

Yobbie was standing out in the yard as they set down just beyond the gate, waving his arm at them. "Mister Potter!" he called out, running up, "Mister Potter, there was someone at the gate just a couple hours back. It's good that you're back, Pella's been all afrighted and that ghost has been pacing about since stirring up an awful racket." 

There was an eerie, flickering light in every window of the manor, and the house seemed to loom intimidatingly above them as if expanding to greater heights. There was a heaviness in the air that seemed to accompany the fog, thick and oppressive. The growing feeling that Harry had been experiencing that something was deeply, deeply off suddenly made a great deal of sense. 

"Where's Tom?" Harry questioned. 

"He was pacing about on the first floor earlier on," Yobbie answered, "Pella's been holed up in her room avoiding him and I've been staying out here close to the house in case they came back." 

"Right. I'll go find him," Harry decided, "Yobbie, can you show Sirius where he can park his bike back in the shed, then let him inside? I'll take care of Tom."  
  
“I can, but they left things on the gate,” Yobbie responded, “I suggest you take a look.”   
  
Hanging from one of the metal spires of the gate was an old pendant necklace, its chain bronzed with age. Burned-down candles littered the broken stones nearest the gate with what looked to be a few small, yellowed bones scattered among them, some sporting rune carvings. It was clearly some type of offering, though its purpose was unclear.

“Don’t touch that necklace,” Sirius cut in just as Harry was leaning in to get a closer look, “It’s definitely cursed. Hang on, I’ll deal with it. Wish I had my dragonhide gloves, but bike leathers will do,” he muttered to himself as he carefully disentangled the chain from the gatepost. He cast several successive spells on the trinket. The pendant gave off a small burst of magic, the stone levitating on its chain in Sirius’s hand before falling limp. 

Sirius pocketed the necklace then waved his wand over the scattered bones. “The bones are an old osteomancy set. They seem to be inert enough to handle. Can’t detect any curses on them.” 

Yobbie nodded in understanding and grabbed Sirius's hand, leading him off onto the property as Harry gathered up the bones and candles and made a beeline for the house. The fog seemed to curl at his heels, threatening to absorb him and only breaking away as he made it onto the porch, pulling back like it had a will of its own as he made his way up the steps. Harry turned and looked back, momentarily fixated on the way the fog seemed to swirl in on itself in little waves and eddies, thickening around the edges of the property to the point that the surrounding forest was almost entirely obscured. There was no way this was natural. 

"All the more reason to find Tom," Harry muttered under his breath as he unlocked the front door and slipped inside. 

Pella was at his side within seconds, throwing her arms around his legs in a tight hug. "I is so glad you is back!" she cried, "The whole house is feeling wrong and upset and Mister Riddle is still very unhappy! He hasn't stopped pacing up and down the floors for hours!" 

"Do you know where he is now?" Harry questioned, crouching down to Pella's height and returning the hug. "I'm glad to be back, and I'll take care of this alright? You don't need to worry yourself anymore. Why don't you go relax in your room for a bit and work on that dress you were making before? I'll let you know when things have calmed down a bit." 

"Are you sure you is not needing Pella's help?" Pella asked, her expression earnest. 

"Tell you what, if I do I'll call for you right away, okay?" 

"Okay," the house elf relented, wringing her hands anxiously. 

"Would you rather stay down here?" Harry questioned, "We do have a guest over who should be coming in any minute." 

"A guest?" Pella perked up, "Is you sure that is a good idea right now?" 

Harry paused. "Well now that you mention it I'm not sure, but Tom had better be getting used to my family visiting now and again so we might as well start now. It's my godfather Sirius who's here, he's going to help me with securing the property so we don't have an issue like this again." 

"Oh, that's very very good," Pella agreed, bouncing on her heels anxiously, "It would be good to avoid this happening again." 

"Definitely," Harry agreed, just as a flicker from the corner of his eye caught his attention. "Tell you what Pella, could you help make my godfather comfortable when he gets inside with Yobbie? I'd feel better if he wasn't alone here, if Tom's still on edge." Pella nodded in agreement as Harry stood. "I'm going to take care of Tom and see if I can't get him calm."  
  


* * *

It wasn't hard to find Riddle. The house seemed to contract in on itself, the air around Harry thickening the closer he got to one part of the house until it seemed to hold a physical weight that bore down on his shoulders. Harry found himself having to measure his steps as he made his way down the second floor hallway, supporting himself against the wall to combat the oppressive feeling. For all that they were entering into wintertime, the air was hot and humid. Harry wiped sweat from his eyes as he stopped by the atrium door. He almost grasped the door handle bare-handed and then thought better of it at the heat radiating off of it as his fingers got close. Instead, he wrapped his coat sleeve over his hand and pushed the door open. A wave of heat hit him instantly. 

Tom was there in the center of the room, pacing back and forth. Glowing blue embers flickered off of him with every motion and his body itself seemed to be coated in a thin membrane of white-hot flames, furious red eyes burning beneath it all as his cloak swirled in his wake, leaving behind a trail of heavy, thick smoke. The room was full of it, and Harry was immediately fighting not to cough as he caught a lungful of the stuff. 

There was no way Harry could get too close to Tom in this state without getting burned for his troubles, but...he couldn't just leave him like this. Slowly, Harry made his way down the stairwell into the Atrium, his hands up and open as he put himself into Tom's line of sight as he paced. 

"You!" Tom snapped the moment he caught sight of him, whirling to face Harry, who stopped short at the bottom of the stairs, "We had an agreement! You were supposed to protect this place and what have you done? Nothing!" 

"That's not true," Harry refuted, carefully moderating his tone to be calm and as gentle as he could manage, "I'm bringing in a professional to strengthen the wards and set up an alarm system. I came back with my godfather to help set up something temporary in the meantime while we wait for more effective wards to be set up." 

He had Tom's attention, clearly, and he had yet to lash out so Harry steeled himself and took a few steps closer despite the overwhelming heat. "I don't want people sneaking onto the property any more than you do, and I want you to feel safe in your own home. I'll do whatever I need to to ensure that." 

"Not fast enough," Tom growled under his breath. In direct contradiction to his accusation, Harry watched as the tension began to leave the specter's shoulders and the flames softened from white-hot to a soft, flickering blue. 

Harry waited with as much patience as he could muster as Tom unclenched his hands and the oppressive heat around him dissipated in the chilled winter air, before he got within arm's reach. It was so very clear to Harry that Tom's anger was only a cover for a deep, impossibly powerful terror that lay within him. He was reacting like a cornered animal. He'd sought out the most open space in his home with the clearest view around to see any potential incoming attack. Harry was positive that Tom had been ambushed here on the property in the moments leading up to his botched death, and every time he felt someone unfamiliar coming onto the land surrounding his home he was immediately thrown back into those memories, reliving the horrors he'd experienced long before. 

He was scared and he needed reassurance.

Harry took the risk and stepped into Tom's space. He reached up, taking Riddle's face in his hands and ignoring the flames that licked at his fingers. He was half surprised to find that they didn't burn him. "You can count on me, Tom. I'll show you." 

Tom's eyes drifted shut and he bowed his head, leaning into Harry's touch. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Sirius paused at the top of the stair to watch, but Harry paid his presence little attention. Tom was what was important right now. 

A hand closed over his own and Tom let out a quiet sigh. "You're taking care of it." 

"Yes," Harry repeated, "My godfather is here to help me with the warding and we're reaching out to a professional for backup so we can get this done as soon as possible." 

The flames around Tom slowly fizzled down to little more than gleaming embers lining the cracks in his skin. He looked down at Harry through half-lidded eyes. "You're back early." 

"You needed me," Harry responded simply. "Don't get me wrong, what you did before was shitty and I'm still mad at you, but that wouldn't stop me from being here when something is wrong." 

Tom’s fingers curled around Harry’s. “Then we can both agree we’re still mad.”  
  
“And we can both agree that there are better ways to respond to the situation,” Harry added pointedly. 

Tom huffed out a small laugh and leaned down, pressing his lips to the top of Harry’s head. “It’s good that you’re back.”  
  
“I do need to talk to you about what is _in_ the basement, though.”  
  
“Ah, yes. That.”  
  
“Please tell me that the body down there is not some poor hapless cultist that stumbled onto the property that you’re sucking the life out of.”  
  
Tom laughed outright. “Oh, is that what you think?”  
  
“There were human bones down there, Tom. _Human bones. And a body._ What else am I supposed to think?” 

“Well I won’t deny that the remaining bones may or may not be what was left of those fools after I was done with them, but no. That...thing, that isn’t a person that’s ever been alive in the same sense as yourself.”  
  
“Your description doesn’t make it seem much better,” Harry observed. “Who is--” he paused, then recalculated his phrasing, “-- _what_ is it?” 

“It is a part of the house, and was born of this place. It has no soul, no consciousness, it is merely empty flesh. An echo of what once was attempting to manifest itself as reality, if you will.” 

“That doesn’t explain anything, Tom.”  
  
“No,” Tom agreed pleasantly, “I’m sure it doesn’t.” 

Harry glared at him sourly. “Could you stop speaking in circles and be straightforward for once?” 

“I’m afraid that isn’t within my personality,” Tom teased, squeezing Harry’s hand momentarily before releasing him. 

Harry tried not to focus on how little he minded the way the touch lingered, or the fact that he missed the warmth of Tom being so close to him when he stepped away. Their time apart from each other had been so very short, but being with him like this now made it that much more obvious how deeply Harry had missed _this_ much more than he’d missed the house itself. Judging by the knowing way that Tom’s lips curled as he held Harry’s gaze, he was well aware of this already. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing away. When he looked back, Tom was smirking wider. “Well. I should um. Go find Sirius,” Harry blustered, looking back toward the now-empty Atrium doorway. 

“Of course,” Tom purred, “I wouldn’t want to keep you.” 

“Right,” Harry agreed hurriedly. “Well--I’ll be seeing you around,” he excused, making a hasty retreat. He could feel Tom’s eyes following him as he left the room. 

* * *

Sirius wasn’t difficult to locate; Harry found him snooping about in the parlor, prodding delicately at the ceremonial dagger on display in the curiosity cabinet with a concentrated expression.  
  
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting,” Harry said as he walked up, “Why didn’t you come into the Atrium?” 

“It looked like you both needed some time to cool down,” Sirius responded with an easy grin, “Cause he was literally on fire, get it?” Harry groaned. Sirius laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Never you mind that. How are you doing?”  
  
“Alright,” Harry said, then paused. “It’s strange how relieving it is to be home.”  
  
“Doesn’t seem so strange to me, with how you and that being were interacting in there--and hot damn, by the way, that is one intense-looking wraith.”  
  
“You think he’s a wraith?”  
  
“I don’t really have any approximation for what I think,” Sirius acknowledged, “but we need to call him something. Definitely not human, for sure. But you handled that well, calming him down. I can see what you were talking about with his volatility. That’s definitely a commitment, to put up with intense emotional displays like that, and not one to make lightly.”  
  
“It isn’t,” Harry agreed, holding back the flare of irritation at Sirius’s words, “and I don’t take it lightly at all. Living here with him _is_ a commitment--one I take very seriously.”  
  
“It seems to me like there’s some potential there.”  
  
Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Just checking in, no need to get defensive,” Sirius placated, holding his hands up innocently, “Remus and I just want to make sure you’re safe. You’ve already seen his moods--though it looks like you’ve got things mostly under control or are at least well on your way there. He obviously trusts you and is warming up to you a lot--pun intended.”  
  
“Mm,” Harry hummed, disengaging from the conversation and glancing out the window toward the front gate.  
  
“That being said, why don’t we head out and take a look at what kind of wards are up around the property?” Sirius suggested. 

“Sure,” Harry agreed, eager to avoid the conversation that he was fairly certain Sirius was attempting to allude to. “Let’s go.” 

The silence lasted until they got to the crumbling stone wall that surrounded a large chunk of the property and Harry couldn’t stand Sirius’s curious glances anymore. “He doesn’t know,” Harry blurted.  
  
“That you’re trans?”  
  
“...yeah,” Harry admitted, his voice sounding a lot smaller and a lot more upset than he wanted it to. His shoulders slumped and he stared sourly at the dirt. “It’s stupid.”  
  
“No it isn’t. You’ve got every reason to be concerned about that, especially if you’re interested in him, and that’s _clearly_ mutual.”  
  
“He’s just like that.”  
  
“I sincerely doubt that. He didn’t even notice I walked into the room, he was so focused on you.” 

Harry clenched his fists at his sides.  
  
“Is it so bad to consider that he might be genuinely interested in you as a person? Or as a possible romantic connection?”

“That’s not--” Harry fumbled, thoughts flickering back to the gentle, almost delicate way that Tom had touched him earlier, “--well. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just complicated.” 

“Because of what he is?” Sirius asked, picking his way over a crumbled part of the stone wall, “because trust me, there are plenty of wix out there that would be deterred by that.” 

“Well no, that’s--well--no really, that’s not it.” 

“So you don’t mind that.” 

“No,” Harry admitted. “If anything it’s just another interesting aspect of who he is--” Harry trailed off as he noticed Sirius’s raised eyebrows and knowing smile, “you’re just teasing me now, aren’t you?” 

“Definitely,” Sirius agreed cheerfully, “I mean it’s pretty clear he’s got the hots for you.” 

“Your puns are terrible.” 

“My puns are a gift to humanity.” 

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off his face. 

“In all seriousness though Harry, it may feel like there’s a lot to lose if you do talk to him about it, but you might find yourself surprised. Just because he ‘grew up in a different time’ doesn’t mean that he’ll reject you if he finds out. I mean hell, he’s definitely queer at the very least, that counts for something.”

“Maybe,” Harry mumbled, kicking at a loose rock in the dirt. “What are we looking for out here anyway?” 

“Any remnants of old wards. There’s got to be some out here, considering the house was practically invisible for decades.” 

“Okay, so...what are old wards supposed to look like?” 

“It’s less of a ‘look’ and more of a ‘feel’ situation. There are likely lodestones they’d be anchored to buried around here somewhere, and it takes some amount of magical sensitivity to find something like that.” 

“So it’s entirely possible we’re just wandering around here uselessly because we aren’t equipped to find them?” 

“Possibly,” Sirius admitted, “When it comes to warding systems we’ll have much better luck talking to a professional; I’d recommend Bill considering their experience both in Egypt and working with Gringotts. At the very least though, we can go along the border of the property and set up a temporary alarm system in case anyone tries to get past the gates. We’ll have to go in and map out the actual borders of the property when we have the right documentation of how far this land parcel extends on the hillside, but once we’ve got that figured out we should be able to set something up. It’ll be pricey to get a proper warding system readjusted considering there’s no obvious ones around the house, but it’ll be worth it if it saves a few lives.” 

“There’s no comparison there. It doesn’t matter how much it costs, I’ll find the money for it.” 

“Good,” Sirius agreed.  
  
They spent the next couple hours looking for any hint of existing wards around the property, but came up empty. Finally, as both of them were starting to shiver from the cold and the cloudy sky was threatening to dump snow on them, they settled for setting up an alarm system, taking a bucket of varnish Harry had gotten for restoring a couple of the older pieces of furniture in the house and preparing to paint a few rune strings onto equidistant stones around the crumbling wall that surrounded the property to activate the alarm spellwork.  
  
“So these will set off anytime a trespasser comes onto the property,” Harry clarified as Sirius pried open the varnish can.  
  
“They’ll set off anytime _anyone_ walks onto the property,” Sirius corrected, “if you have any visitors, expected or otherwise, you’ll definitely know they’re here. Here’s the next fun part. I need a bit of your blood to activate it.”  
  
“Wait--you didn’t say anything about _blood magic,_ Sirius!”  
  
Sirius shrugged. “Hey, it works. And it’s not going to hurt anyone, yourself included, it’s just going to keep it from going off anytime that you walk through the gate.” 

“...Alright, if you say so,” Harry relented, holding his hand out. All it took was a quick little cutting hex, and Sirius holding the varnish can up to catch the blood that welled up from the injury. It was over almost as quickly as it happened, and Sirius was sealing up the cut with a small healing charm. Sirius stirred the mixture with a few twirls of his wand, then set to carefully painting each selected stone.

“That should be enough for now,” Sirius announced as he leaned back from the last finished bit of painting. “It definitely won’t be a permanent solution, but this should buy us a bit of time to get a professional to take a look. Ready to test ‘em out?”  
  
“Sure,” Harry agreed. Sirius grinned cheerily and scrambled his way over the stone wall.

The sound was blaring and Harry could almost feel his head splitting with the proximity of it. The noise the stones were giving off sounded like a thousand simultaneous screams at a far higher pitch than any human could achieve. 

“Shut it off!” Harry cried out, clapping his hands over his ears. Sirius mouthed something back but Harry couldn’t hear a word of it over the sound. It took Sirius vaulting over the wall and yelling into his ear as he repeated the hand motions of casting a ‘finite’, which Harry quickly replicated. Mercifully, the sound instantly ceased. Harry groaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Well, at least I know I won’t be sleeping through that.”  
  
Sirius barked out a laugh and clapped a hand on Harry’s back. “Come on, let’s head back up to the house.” 

As they walked up the overgrown path to the front porch, Harry glanced up and caught sight of the single, flickering candle in the topmost attic window. Sirius followed his gaze. “He’s waiting up for you, huh?” he teased, elbowing Harry in the ribs. Harry scoffed and elbowed him back, fighting down the blush rising to his cheeks. “Mind if I use your floo?” 

“What about your bike?” Harry asked, surprised. 

“You need some way to get around in sight of all these muggles, don’t you? Consider it on loan and take good care of it for me for a bit, yeah?” 

“Sirius, that’s _your bike,_ I can’t just--” 

“Harry,” Sirius interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I want you to have it. Besides, if it gives you trouble that’s just another excuse for me to come visit!” 

Sirius ignored all further protestations as they made their way up to the house. By the time that they had finished, afternoon had long begun shifting into evening. The sun hadn’t set just yet, but as Sirius stood before the floo and prepared to leave, Harry considered asking if he’d like to stay for just a bit longer. The words held fast on the tip of his tongue as Sirius waved brightly to him and disappeared into the green flames, and Harry was once again left alone in the house. Or well...not entirely alone, he thought with a smile as Pella came up beside him and cheerfully informed him that she’d cooked dinner for everyone. For the first time since he’d come to live with him, this evening Yobbie joined Harry and Pella at the dining room table rather than taking his meal to eat elsewhere. 

* * *

Later that evening, Harry set about fishing up some parchment and envelopes and began composing two letters. The first one for Bill Weasley was a quick and easy write. He explained the situation in the barest terms he could manage, knowing that Bill would be able to read between the lines as to what he wasn’t quite voicing about the dire nature of the situation and the threat that Tom posed to anyone daring to come onto his land. The letter to Hermione was much, much harder. 

The fourth reject was crumpled into a ball and sent sailing over his shoulder. Harry groaned and kicked back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. There was so much to say and so much to worry about that Hermione might have to say in return if Harry was open about everything that had happened. He knew that most reasonable people would take one look at his situation and how he’d been treated and would say ‘get out immediately before that toxicity kills you,’ but Hermione also wasn’t exactly ‘most people’ either any more than he was, and she certainly didn’t have the same view of magical creatures as the general public. That being said, did he even feel safe with writing this information down in a letter?  
  
Eventually, Harry settled on giving the bare minimum: that he was working from home now after spending a couple days visiting Sirius and Remus, but that he’d made contact with an individual during his investigations who was paralyzed and unable to communicate, and requested any information she may have about any technology that may allow him to converse with others. Folding up the letter before he could think better of it, Harry stuffed it into an envelope and sealed it shut before scrawling out a hurried address. Shoving both letters into his pocket, he pushed out from his chair and headed off into the house in the direction of the small owlery room located in one of the topmost spires of the building. 

Barnabas certainly wasn’t anything like Hedwig had been in her lifetime. The tawny owl was loud and bitter and had a tendency to bite. Harry managed to get the letters attached with a bit of goading and a couple extra treats (and only one scratch on his wrist this time), and off he went.  
  
It felt as if some great weight had been lifted off of Harry’s shoulders as he watched Barnabas swoop over the forest until he was little more than a fluttering dot in the distance. Though he had a number of difficult problems facing him, he was that much closer to reaching a resolution. Feeling accomplished with how much he’d managed to get done today, Harry made his way down the winding stair of the small spire and out into the main hall which looked...unfamiliar. 

The walls were decorated with black wainscoting beneath a glimmering plum-colored wallpaper as far down the hall as he could see in either direction. A long, patterned rug stretched endlessly, curving around the corner at the far end of the hall. Door after door lined the hallway, some recognizable and some entirely new to Harry. Each one had minor differences between them, just enough to tell them apart and most _certainly_ not in the order with which he was familiar.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and stepped off the stairwell into the hallway. He didn’t know if he was getting used to the house stretching and shifting around him as it rearranged itself to its own liking, but the disorientation and uncertainty that these changes brought with them didn’t have as much of a punch to it as it had the last time he’d been caught up in this labyrinthian puzzle.  
  
He didn’t put much thought into the direction he went; he doubted it would matter much in the end. Harry could hear the walls creaking and swaying around him. It was strangely mellowing to feel like he was listening to the house breathe in and out with each crackle and groan of the timbers. Somewhere far off in the house--perhaps on another floor entirely--he could hear music. 

Harry continued to wander, occasionally turning left or right; he went up one flight of stairs and down another that seemed to twist and curl in on itself until he wasn’t sure whether he was standing right-side up or upside down and somehow sticking to the steps. Everything seemed to be endless doors wherever he looked; most opened with ease, but he didn’t attempt any further spellwork on those that didn’t. He had a feeling there were some things in this house that were meant to stay hidden. 

That consideration was promptly tested when Harry opened a door and found a rickety, dark stairwell curling upward into deep shadows, bracketed on all sides by tilted, uneven walls that rose up far beyond what Harry could see. He could hear wind howling distantly from above and the sound of rain pattering on old rotted wood, though he knew it was far too cold outside for such weather. Was this another echo from the past? It was unlike any he’d entered into before, if it was. 

Steeling himself, Harry stepped through the door and up onto the first stair. As he began his ascension, the door creaked shut with the accompanying click of a bolt falling into place, leaving him in complete darkness with nothing but the wind and rain above for company. 

All the usual comforting noises of the manor seemed to have been deadened, sucked back beyond the tight, cramped walls of this space the instant that he was enclosed within. He could no longer hear music drifting in the halls beyond the door. He was well and truly alone. 

Into the gaping silence that had been left behind, Harry whispered a soft, “ _Lumos,_ ” holding his wand aloft.  
  
There was an aged, brownish handprint on the wall, just above where he was resting his own hand as he steadied himself on a creaking step. His hand came away dotted with dry flakes. It was like old, peeling paint but far more delicate and impermanent, and it didn’t take Harry long to place why he felt discomforted by that as he raised his wand to reveal more of the steps underfoot.  
  
Dark stains of what seemed like a strange mix of aged, mostly-dried blood and something similar to the black, viscous sludge in the basement were splattered all over the stairwell before him, leading upwards around the corner. There was far too much of it for someone to have lost and still survived. 

There were old burns from spellfire on the walls, and the railing was blasted apart further up the stairway--there had been a fight here in close quarters; one that hadn’t ended well for either party judging by the human-shaped burn pattern down near the doorway that looked to be all that was left of someone else who never made it out of Blackbarrow Manor. 

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. The air in the cramped stairwell felt thick and soupy and seemed to collect in his lungs as though to choke him. His chest was starting to hurt and the walls seemed to close in from all directions as the stairwell stretched endlessly.  
  
Had Tom died here? 

Harry’s feet stumbled up the steps two at a time, clutching for a railing that wasn’t there and almost falling at one point before staggering back to lean heavily against the curving wall. He wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so hard to breathe but his lungs were full of lead and the pressure in his head was overwhelming.

Blood, that was Tom’s blood he’d been hurt and bleeding and all Harry could think about were the stab wounds on his chest and how he must have been drowning in his own blood even as he staggered up this stairwell in an ill-fated attempt to escape. He could so easily imagine him slipping in his own blood as he rounded the stairwell right there, hand leaving behind an ugly red stain on the wall as he steadied himself and turned to fire at his assailants--

He needed to get out of here. 

Harry didn’t think as he made his way up the stairs. He ignored the way the black ichor on the steps seemed to suck at the bottoms of his shoes as if to keep him rooted there, focusing only on climbing upwards. The steps seemed to curve above him endlessly, and Harry half wondered at whether the house itself was extending the space in an infinite, repeating spiral.  
  
The sound of rainfall loud and near at hand broke him from his obsessive thoughts as he rounded the stair to see a door just five steps ahead. A broken skylight poured rain down on the stairs, rendering them slippery and untrustworthy. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. “It’s mid November, it isn’t actually raining outside,” he said aloud, “this isn’t real.” 

His steps were careful and direct as he covered the remaining distance to the door. It loomed before him, silent and imposing. “Well, can’t be worse than this,” Harry murmured. Holding his breath, he turned the knob and stepped through. 

The landing he found himself on was small and narrow, a single door placed at either end. An old, weathered railing was all that stood between himself and an impossibly steep drop which appeared to give a view directly down to the entry hall. Harry knew for a fact that the architecture of the upper floors offered no such view, but here it was all the same. At the moment, he couldn’t care less. He let the stairwell door swing shut behind him and dropped to sit on the floor and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Air came in shaky gasps as he curled his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He registered distantly that his face was wet--had he been crying, or was it from walking through the rain? He didn’t want to think about the implications of it, if it was. 

A creaking noise that was so slight that he almost missed it startled him into alertness. Harry turned sharply to his left in time to see the familiar door before him swing open to reveal the usually-locked master bedroom which should have been on the third floor. It was practically an open invitation, and Harry suddenly wanted so very, _very_ badly to succumb to the sudden urge to throw himself onto Tom’s bed, to curl up with an old pillow and ride out this panic attack. It would be so soothing just to be closer to Tom right now (and he wasn’t about to examine that any closer) but...this was Tom’s space, somewhere he’d designated as sacred ground, and Harry wasn’t about to break the covenant he’d made with him yet again. It would be blatantly disrespectful for him to intrude like that.  
  
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Harry forced himself to get to his feet as the lit wall sconces to either side of the central door began to flicker uneasily. He certainly wasn’t going back down the stairwell, so the only option was the other door to his right. It opened easily at his touch. He was immediately greeted with the faraway sound of a slow, jazzy tune echoing down the hallway that stretched before him. This time he followed the sound, ignoring how his hands shook as he made his way forward.  
  
Light poured out from a cracked door not far ahead, the music growing louder as he approached. He was beginning to recognize the doors though they tended to shift about, and he was fairly sure that was the entry to the second floor entertainment room judging by the mirrored flower carvings on its upper half. The thought that Tom may be inside had him hesitating for a split second, considering what would happen if he showed up looking as much a mess as he felt, but the urge to see him quickly overruled his reluctance. 

Stepping through the doorway was like walking into a dream. 

Crystalline lamps sent shimmering reflections of warm light scattering across the room. Candles flickered here and there with soft, muted ambiance beautifully accompanied by the low crooning vocals emanating from the record player off in the corner. Everything within the room spoke of comfort and relaxation, and there was Tom in the middle of it all, kicked back on the velvet sofa with a glass of firewhiskey in hand and a decanter sitting beside him on the coffee table, cutting a handsome figure in his black and gold smoking jacket, hair slicked back in the height of style for his time. 

Tom took one look at him and summoned a second glass from the liquor cabinet. “You look like something the cat dragged in. Come, sit down.”  
  
Harry’s feet carried him to the sofa without any direction from his brain. He dropped heavily down to sit beside Riddle, who proceeded to pour him a tall drink. 

“Here, you look like you could use it.” Tom pressed the glass into Harry’s shaking hands, momentarily closing his fingers over Harry’s own as if to quell his tremors.  
  
“Is this even real or am I going to come out of this finding I’ve been drinking hundred-year-old firewhiskey, and how bad are my insides going to regret it?” Harry questioned, wincing a bit at how his voice cracked when he spoke. 

“Does it matter if it has the intended effect? It’ll help you calm down.” 

“Is this safe?” The glass was already halfway to his lips even as he voiced the thought. The liquor burned on the way down. He could barely taste it. Harry coughed, then drained the rest of the glass.

Tom looked mildly amused. “That’s not how you’re supposed to drink it.” 

“I don’t really care how I’m supposed to drink it.” 

Riddle chuckled and refilled his glass, mixing a second drink. “Take this one slow, alright? I’m not carrying you to your room at the end of the evening if you get sloshed.”

Harry took his advice this time. Bitters certainly weren’t his favorite, but the taste was oddly grounding in the moment. After some time had passed and Harry had managed to finish off half of his second glass, Tom seemed to deem it an appropriate time to ask, “Now what put you in such a state?”

The words froze on his tongue as Harry looked back at Tom’s open, concerned expression and he remembered the despair that had passed over his face when he’d first talked about his death. “I’d...rather not talk about it,” he mumbled, looking away and hunching in on himself. 

Tom’s lips curled down in a sharp frown as he watched him. “Alright, if you won’t talk about it then come here.”  
  
“Huh?” 

Tom’s fingers closed around his wrist and he dragged him closer. Harry’s eyes went wide as he realized he was going to end up in Tom’s lap at this rate, until he was guided to sit down on the floor with his back against the couch between Tom’s legs. His shock and confusion dissipated as Tom’s fingers began untying the band in his hair and combing gently over his scalp in repetitive, soothing motions.  
  
“Just focus on the whiskey. You’re safe here from whatever happened, and I’d never let anyone but me lay a finger on you.” 

Harry’s eyes melted shut as he instead began to center his thoughts on the softness of Tom’s touch, relaxing until the back of his head was nestled into Tom’s lap with his hair splayed out in a dark halo over his legs. Tom didn’t ask anything more of him, didn’t question why; he merely accepted Harry’s silence and offered this simple comfort in exchange. 

“Why are you doing this?” The question emerged as a shaky whisper that betrayed far more emotion than Harry had intended. 

Tom’s fingers hesitated tangled in his hair as he considered the question, his motions resuming as he answered, “I used to do something like this for Abraxas when he was upset. He was such a melodramatic little brat, always getting frantic over silly, frivolous things. Telling him they were silly or that whatever drama he’d gotten himself into wouldn’t matter in a week never helped. Listening and being present while he dealt with it did. Admittedly, I also just wanted to play with your hair and you seem inclined to allow me that boon,” Tom teased, flicking the side of Harry’s head lightly and eliciting a small laugh from the auror. “I’ll have you know I don’t just do this for anyone, so I expect you to keep it in confidence.” 

“I won’t tell a soul, I promise,” Harry agreed easily. His drink sat abandoned on the coffee table as Tom carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. He tilted his head up just a bit and turned it, pressing his cheek against the palm of the specter’s hand. It was a small but meaningful gesture, and a deep crack in the barrier that Harry had erected between Tom and his own feelings. Tom hesitated at the contact, then delicately stroked his fingers down Harry’s cheek as he looked down at him. 

“Then we understand one another perfectly,” Tom whispered. 

Harry leaned into the touch. There was a warm, earthy blend of the scent of fresh cedar chips and the thick, dark smokiness of a smoldering bonfire that seemed to hang about Tom. He’d not paid it much attention before, but he found himself leaning in closer, seeking out the comforting scent. He’d always thought the acknowledgement of this soft, subtle longing he felt for contact with Tom would be painful, somehow brutal. This seemed to be the exact opposite. 

His eyelids were beginning to grow heavy as Tom’s arms settled lazily over his shoulders, and Harry leaned into the embrace. “You didn’t go into the room.” Tom’s quiet words pulled him from the blurry haze between sleeping and wakefulness.  
  
“You were watching?”  
  
“I was,” Tom acknowledged, letting his hands dangle carelessly over Harry’s chest. “Why didn’t you?”  
  
“I wanted to,” Harry admitted, tilting his head back and meeting Tom’s eyes, “but that’s your room and you’ve got a right to your own privacy. You’ve trusted me enough to invite me into your home, but I have to trust that if there’s anything hidden in those spaces that might help your case, that you’ll share it when you’re ready to, _if_ you are ever ready to, and that if you aren’t willing to do that then it simply isn’t meant for me to know, regardless of any good intention I may feel that I have in stepping in to that space. There’s...so much that I don’t understand about you, least of all why you really brought me here, but I have to have faith that you did it for a good reason, if not to seek out your own revenge somehow through me. It seems like you don’t want revenge though, for some reason. I want to understand you.” 

“Seeking my motives?” The words dripped from Tom’s lips with a hint of humor, but his expression seemed to be holding back something darker beneath his honeyed smile.  
  
“Well not in that sense, no, but...I want to know who you are. What drives you, both in your past and in your present. What your goals are, what you want to accomplish, if you still have dreams for what life you have now or if they passed with your own passing.”  
  
“It must be a great mystery for you to unravel.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about wanting to be able to connect with the person I’m sharing a life with here. Don’t go making assumptions about my motivations.” 

“So very literal,” Tom murmured, his lips quirking upward. “Are you sure that you won’t regret the answers you come up with?” 

“I already don’t like a lot of things I’ve found, but that’s not held me back so far. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you.” It struck Harry then that there was a tension in the way Tom held himself. He was worried--no, he _expected_ rejection. Was that why he was so resistant to sharing his past? Harry turned to face Tom, catching his hands in his as he got to his knees. “Regardless of who you were, I’m judging you on who you are _now,_ Tom. Like I said, don’t write me off so easily.” 

The open surprise on Tom’s face and the raw shock that permeated it warmed something in Harry. There was a ferocity to this heat in him that he had no doubt could match Tom’s own intensity in equal measure if given the chance. Tom seemed to think his own value to Harry could be easily tarnished and cast aside, even as he claimed that Harry was somehow _his_ just moments before.  
  
“You forget, Tom. You think of me as yours to protect from your past, but you forget that you are just as much _mine_ as well.”  
  
Tom’s lips parted and he took a slight, sharp breath, eyes widening as he absorbed the earnest seriousness of Harry’s words. That moment was all he got before Harry gave in to the rising need within him and reached up, grasping the back of Tom’s neck and hauling him down into a rough, urgent kiss. 

There was nothing sweet about this. It was fierce and harsh enough to bruise as if Harry could get his point across through the sheer intensity of the contact alone. He could taste the firewhiskey on Tom’s lips. There was a deep, internal heat that seemed to radiate from his core back into Harry, only succeeding in inflaming him further as Tom pulled his hand from Harry’s grasp and dragged him in closer, putting his weight into it as he deepened the kiss. There was a forcefulness to him that made Harry’s knees go weak and his heart shuddered against his ribcage as if to beat its way out of his chest. He’d been _missing_ this, he realized, and it had been so very long since he’d shared this kind of intimacy with someone and now having it, here with Tom, was setting his nerves on _fire._ He was struck with the recognition that he and Tom were almost _alarmingly_ well-matched to each other _._

When Harry finally pulled away to gasp for air, Tom laughed and wrapped his arms around his waist, tumbling off the couch onto the floor. Harry’s half-empty whiskey glass rattled precariously on the table edge before falling onto the carpet and rolling beneath the sofa as Tom pulled him into another heated kiss.  
  
“God, you’re just _impossible,”_ Tom breathed, grinning against Harry’s lips before stealing another kiss.  
  
“You’re one to talk,” Harry retorted, his words cutting off with a strangled gasp as Tom’s lips found his neck. 

The low timbre of Tom’s teasing laughter was doing horrible things to any scrap of restraint that Harry had left as sharp teeth dragged over his skin and his breath caught in his throat, fingers digging into Tom’s back as he held back a groan. They were well past stepping into forbidden territory and a small voice in the back of Harry’s head cried out _‘this shouldn’t be happening, he doesn’t know!’_ but Harry simply couldn’t find it within himself to _care_ anymore. All that mattered in this moment was him, Tom, and this blossoming intensity between them. 

This was such a perfect surrender. 

The ear-splitting shriek of the border alarm sounding off ripped him from his thoughts as Tom stilled above him, first in surprise and then in fury. His eyes were suddenly red, deepening into raw, molten rage as his skin peeled away and disintegrated into flakes of ash, the illusion of his humanity swiftly tearing itself apart as his anger manifested, leaving behind the dark, flickering shade Harry was so familiar with.  
  
“Tom, Tom! It’s okay! I’ll handle this, I’ve got this,” Harry cried out, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Riddle’s neck. He glared back from beneath the shadowy haze that surrounded him, but Harry ignored his anger and scrambled to his feet as Tom rose up to his full height.  
  
“You’re right,” Tom responded, his voice cold with fury and hands clenched at his side, “I am waiting on you to handle these disruptions now.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, not pausing to straighten himself as he opened the door out onto not the endless hallway of before, but the second floor landing with the stairs just in sight. He stood back momentarily in surprise but snapped out of it as Tom swept past him to stand imperiously at the top of the stair, waiting. All humor and lightness seemed to have left him and Harry found himself feeling the loss deeply as he rushed down the stairs past him and out the front door with his wand in hand and stepped straight into a thick, heavy fog.  
  
“Great,” Harry muttered as he held his wand aloft. A lumos did little to enlighten the situation, the brightness only reflecting off the soft haze around him and making it harder to see than before. Cursing, he ended the spell and set off into the mist as carefully as he could, trying to maintain some sense of direction as he proceeded forward away from the manor. “Why does it have to be cultists?” Harry grumbled to himself as he set off across the lawn. Glancing back over his shoulder he could just barely see the lights of the manor flickering through the mist. “Would be nice if Sirius’s alarm told me _where_ they trespassed rather than simply that someone was on the property. It was definitely something to discuss with Bill when they got back to him about the wards. 

The crackle of old dead grass underfoot sounded off to his left. Harry whirled around and sent a quick hex rocketing through the fog, but it only met empty air. There was a loud thump not far away and the sound of someone stumbling off into the night--they must have dodged, but Harry would not be deterred. He set off in hot pursuit, racing after the intruder at top speed and nearly falling face-first into the dirt as they vaulted over the crumbling wall surrounding the property. A spell ricocheted off the wall several feet to his right--not a near hit by any measure, but the trail of sparkling magic through the air momentarily illuminated a figure in the distance.  
  
“ _Petrificus Totalus!”_ Harry roared, sending the spell snapping through the fog toward the figure in the distance, who let out a shriek as it just barely missed its target. The intruder tripped over the length of their cloak as they fumbled out of the way and went crashing to the ground, scrambling back on their hands and knees as Harry surged through the mist to catch them at wandpoint. “Don’t move, or you’ll get something a lot nastier than petrified,” Harry warned.  
  
The figure turned, hand slipping into the sleeve of their robe but Harry sent off a stinging hex before they could draw their wand.  
  
“Ow! Fucking hell, Potter, that hurt!” 

Harry blinked owlishly. He knew that voice.  
  
“Malfoy? You’re not a death eater!” 

Draco stumbled to his feet, readjusting the hood that had half fallen back to reveal a shock of blonde hair. “Fuck off, Potter!”  
  
“YOU fuck off, you’re on _my_ property!”  
  
“It doesn’t belong to you!” Draco snapped back, dusting himself off.  
  
A hand rested lightly on Harry’s shoulder as Tom swept into being just behind him. “Do we have a problem here?” he questioned, sharp eyes focusing on the Malfoy heir.

Malfoy stared in openmouthed terror at the specter before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the ground in a dead faint.


	19. A New Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by Eridian.
> 
> Chapter listening: 
> 
> The Traveling Montage by Danny Elfman  
> Ghost Song by Max Ablitzer  
> Return of the Good Fortune by Eric Neveux  
> Wolf Suite Pt 2 by Danny Elfman  
> The Hunt Builds by Wojciech Kilar

“For such a skinny git you’re really heavy,” Harry grumbled as he hauled Draco off his shoulder onto the parlor sofa.  
  
“I do believe the point of agreeing to allow you to deal with trespassers was to get them _off_ of the property, not to _bring them into the house,”_ Riddle drawled as he came to stand beside Harry, looking down at the unconscious Malfoy.  
  
“Trust me, there’s got to be a good reason for him to be here. He’s not one of your followers.” 

“I take it you know him from somewhere?” 

“Yeah, uh, we went to school together. He’s Lucius’s son.” Harry had a good feeling that it was certainly not in Draco’s best interest to let Riddle know that he’d been Harry’s biggest school bully growing up, so he kept that to himself. 

“Which would make him Abraxas’s grandson,” Tom murmured, looking down at Draco thoughtfully. At the very least, Tom didn’t look to be nearly as upset as he had when Harry had gone barreling out of the manor upon hearing the alarm go off.  
  
Pella placed a neatly-folded wet cloth on Draco’s forehead. “Should Pella get a plate of snacks? We was not expecting guests so late at night.”  
  
“That is wholly unnecessary,” Tom interrupted before Harry could speak. “He is not a guest, he is an intruder.”  
  
“He isn’t looking up to doing much intruding,” Pella observed, prodding Draco’s cheek. His head flopped to the side and he gave a small groan, brow crinkling in discomfort. Malfoy’s eyes shot open suddenly and he rose up from the couch. Pella fell back into the floor with a startled squeak as Draco moved to draw his wand, a snarl on his lips, only to find it wasn’t there.  
  
“You’ve been disarmed, boy,” Tom drawled. “I’d advise you against attempting any wandless if you have the ability for it. If I hear any such offensive spells leave your lips in my presence I may ensure you remain comfortably quiet...permanently.” 

Draco made a small, terrified noise and scrambled back as far away from Tom as he could manage without falling off the sofa.  
  
“Stop scaring him, he’s not dangerous,” Harry chided, bypassing a smirking Riddle to check on the younger Malfoy.  
  
“Let me have my fun,” Tom purred, his eyes glinting maliciously in the firelight.

“If I let you have your fun he’d likely be dead,” Harry retorted, “And besides, you entrusted _me_ with the task of dealing with trespassers, so _let me deal with it.”_ Tom’s lips curled down in what Harry wasn’t quite sure he’d call a pout, but it was close enough that it almost made him smile as he turned to face the blonde. “You alright there Pella?” The house elf nodded hurriedly as she got to her feet. “I think we’ve got this situation handled, I’m sorry the alarm woke you up. You and Yobbie should head back to bed.”

“If you is sure, but call Pella if anything changes.” She shot a concerned glance towards Riddle, then left. 

“Alright there Malfoy? Not seeing double or anything are you?” 

“He listens to you?” Draco asked, eyes widened to their limits as he stared past Harry to the specter now standing near the fireplace. 

“He’d better, or I won’t help him,” Harry responded, though the words were meant more for Tom than to answer Malfoy’s question. “Why were you out there, anyway?” 

“It’s none of your business, Potter!”  
  
“Actually it is my business, I kind of live here you know.” 

“You will state your business, or I will _helpfully_ assist you off the property the hard way,” Tom hissed, “Abraxas will simply have to forgive me if you are returned to your family home in pieces.” 

“My grandfather?” Draco paled considerably, gulped, then said, “He um, he died. Decades back, before I was born. Dragon pox.” 

Tom’s expression cracked, and for a moment there was something raw in the horrified surprise there that was quickly shuttered as he turned away. “...oh,” he said quietly. Clearly he hadn’t known, and Harry felt twice the fool in that moment for failing to ever mention it. He knew how close the two of them had been, perhaps more than most had realized when they’d been alive.

Harry hesitated, glancing between Tom and Draco before approaching the specter and quietly asking, though he knew the answer, “You didn’t know.” 

“No,” Tom responded, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared tiredly into the fire, “I didn’t.” 

“Do you want me to take Draco and leave you alone?” 

Harry took Tom’s lengthy silence as its own answer, but when he moved to step away and usher his childhood enemy from the room, a hand snaked out and grasped Harry’s arm, bruising and viselike in sharp contrast to the softness of Tom’s whispered, “Don’t leave.”  
  
It was a surprising realization that the last thing that Tom wanted was to be alone right now. Had Harry ever considered such a scenario he would have thought that Tom would be the sort to grieve in private if he did at all. He’d always seemed closed off about such things like he was about much of his past, but on second thought Tom had rarely been anything but intensely emotional in the times that Harry had interacted with him. He may wear a perfectly crafted blank expression a good deal of the time, but there was always some deeper, private emotion he held back roiling behind his sharp gaze. And it made sense for someone who’d been alone for so long, craving safe company, to take comfort in his presence. 

Harry gave Tom a sad smile and reached back, gently resting a hand on his arm. It was often a toss-up as to whether his fingers would pass right through, and Harry half expected they wouldn’t this time with how used to Tom being somewhat corporeal he’d become. His fingers slipped through the specter’s form, and he momentarily felt the heat of a steady flame as they lingered in the warmth. Tom seemed faded and oddly tired, as if the energy and strength had gone out of him with the knowledge of Abraxas’s death. Harry let his hand drop back to his side. 

Taking this as a sign, Harry returned to Draco and took a seat in the tall-backed chair opposite the sofa across from him. Draco moved as if to speak but Harry raised a finger to his lips, glancing pointedly towards Tom. He hoped that he got his point across that the specter needed some peace to process. 

While he couldn’t posit a guess as to the entire context of their relationship, and though some part of him doubted Tom had ever been emotionally attached with the elder Malfoy, he probably cared more for Abraxas than he did for anybody else at the time he’d known him, even if he never said as much in so many words. He couldn’t say that he’d outlived him, but he had in some ways outlasted his former friend. There were downsides to having persisted, Harry could see. He wondered how many others among Tom’s friends and close associates had long since passed without his knowing. Harry couldn’t help but question how many times Tom had relived his own memories within the manor’s walls, not knowing whether the whispers of those he’d known in life were merely echoes of those still alive, or ghosts of someone long past.  
  
The silence stretched uncomfortably between the three of them for some time before Tom broke it. 

“How long?” 

Draco paused to think for a moment before he answered. “I think it was in nineteen-sixty-four? My father wasn’t very old when he passed. I was told he caught Dragon Pox and he had a weak heart from it.” 

“A weak heart,” Tom echoed with bitter amusement, “of course he did.” There was a brief hesitation as Tom considered Draco’s response before he questioned, his voice strong and deep, “Why did you come here?” 

Draco so clearly would have refused to answer had it been Harry who had asked, but he seemed to hold some level of reverence for Tom that would never extend to his childhood rival. He fumbled for a moment before he pieced together the words to answer. “It's actually sort of _because_ of something related to my grandfather." Draco paused, worrying his lip between his teeth before he fumbled out, "I’m supposed to be getting married soon. I’ve been betrothed for years but it wasn’t really something I thought about, it just seemed kind of...far off in the distant future. Until it wasn’t anymore. And I, um. Well.”  
  
“Out with it.” 

“I’m not attracted to women,” Draco blurted, the words tumbling together in his rush to get them out. He shot a nervous glance at an unsurprised Harry before continuing. “I found my grandfather’s journals and he wrote about a lot of things--being the head of the family, his work, his goals, his dreams, his marriage--but he also wrote about you, as well. And his involvement with you.” Draco fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, looking anywhere but at the dark, imposing figure by the fireplace. “I...don’t know what I’m doing. Or if I’m doing the right thing, or...how to be a proper husband or anything like that or if I can even properly have an heir like I’m supposed to. I don’t know how he did it all.” 

“Then why come here?” 

“There are rumors among those who know of you. That if a wizard offers their services up to you that you may grant them a boon or help them in some way. I thought...I don’t know what I thought,” Draco admitted, “I was kind of desperate. I thought...maybe you might know. How I can do this.” 

Never in his life had Harry understood the phrase ‘like a deer caught in the headlights’ as deeply as he did in this moment. He’d suspected that Draco was queer like himself; he'd even joked about how deep in the closet Malfoy was with his friends as a teenager in some of his crueler moments, but he’d never really paused to consider how that would play out in such a traditional-leaning pureblood household of such repute as the Malfoy family. 

“And...maybe I was a little bitter that I’d found out about this person who was dealing with a lot of the same things that I am and that after all that you’d been through with my grandfather and that you’d entrusted the care of this place to our family, that my father had just handed off the manor to the first person who came along asking about it. I felt like it should have been my responsibility to look after this place in his name.” 

“I assure you that Harry here was not the first to ask,” Tom asserted to Harry’s own surprise, “but he was the first whom I approved of. You aren’t equipped to do what is needed to be the keeper of this place,” he responded simply. There was a beat of silence before he continued, “Abraxas didn’t do it all alone. He was very much a free spirit and both he and his wife had an agreement in that regard. They didn’t love each other in the romantic sense, but they were committed to being a family. They had to fight to have your father. I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers that many purebloods struggle with infertility--unsurprising, with all the inbreeding--and your grandmother and grandfather were not spared from that. Petra miscarried twice when they did actually manage to conceive, and it took a bit of...extra work, to keep the last pregnancy. He may not have loved his wife but he loved his son very much. I don’t know that he’d be pleased with the man he’s become necessarily, but I suppose he could have done worse.”

Tom walked over to stand beside Harry’s seat, watching Draco studiously. “You aren’t much like him, but there is a bit of grit in you that reminds me of him. You should remember that you don’t have to love someone to be married to them, or to have a ‘successful’ relationship. And when it comes to producing an heir there are ways, of course, to get around any repulsion to the female gender. I’m sure you’re aware of them. They aren’t...ideal, but it is one way.” 

Draco blanched. If Tom meant what Harry thought he meant, then he was talking about amortentia, if not about the numerous other love potions available on the market that were entirely legal. The idea of it sounded abhorrent, and Harry already could think of a few better ones.

“There are less conventional means than drugging yourself, of course. And with the right application of magic there are few limitations to how she--or you, even--could bear a child, if you are willing to put yourself through the strain of it. Ultimately, it is a matter of discussion for yourself and the lady in question as to what you are both comfortable with. The best advice I can give in that regard is don’t lie to her about what you can and cannot do. You stand to lose a potential--and important--ally if you keep her out of the loop in regards to your own proclivities. If the betrothal wasn’t already set in stone I’d suggest you find a woman who has similar interests in the fairer sex. There have been many such marriages.” Tom was silent for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t turn away one of his descendants. If you need help as he did, then come to me.” 

“You know...there are men who are capable of having children,” Harry suggested, “Muggles also have something called in vitro fertilization. They can take the sperm and egg of two individuals and combine them, then implant them into a womb to be carried to term. You don’t necessarily have to have um, relations with someone, in order to conceive a child together.” 

Tom and Draco were both clearly surprised at the suggestion, but it was obvious to Harry that either would likely be less painful than what Tom was suggesting Draco put himself through. Harry couldn’t imagine the kind of body dysphoria that would result from magically inducing a pregnancy in the way Tom was suggesting for a cisgender man such as Draco.  
  
“MEN who can carry children? Without magic?” Draco questioned, aghast. 

“...Yeah, men like myself who are transgender and were born with a uterus, we can still carry children.” 

Harry forcibly kept his focus on Draco. This wasn’t how he’d planned on broaching the subject--not that he’d really made any plans about broaching it at all--but if he stopped now he’d chicken out. “I know I don’t exactly advertise it to every person I meet but surely at some point in our school years you picked up on it, right Draco? I never really hid the fact that I’m a trans man from anyone, and there are definitely others like myself out there. If having babies is _that_ important and your wife isn’t able to have one or you aren’t willing to have one the standard way with her, it’s an option that might not be quite as repulsive to you.” 

“But you’re not really a man, are you? I mean, if you were born a woman.” 

Harry stared back at him blandly. He was going to have to work this out in a way that Draco could understand. “Okay, let’s look at it this way. Say that you were born a man, and say that you, being the supreme idiot that you are, got into a duel over something stupid and got your dick blasted off.” Draco gave an indignant squawk, but Harry steamrolled over any protests and continued on. “Are you suddenly no longer a man because you don’t have a dick? Or is your masculinity and your sense of self not dependent on your genitals? Not that I want to be talking about your dick, Malfoy, but did I get my point across?” 

Draco shifted uncomfortably and mumbled a bit under his breath, then rolled his eyes and sighed, “Okay, I guess you have a point. But wouldn’t it be weird? To be with...someone like you? When I’m attracted to men?” 

“Are you solely attracted to genitals? You don’t think at all about the person you’re with? That’s pretty sad, Malfoy, and pretty disrespectful to whomever you date. I feel bad for them in advance.” 

Harry leaned forward, clasping his hands loosely between his legs to keep himself from fidgeting anxiously as he knuckled down into the conversation. 

“There’s all sorts of people out there, Malfoy. There’s also people out there who aren’t born with genitalia that can be that easily categorized, not that I'd say we _should_ be categorizing infant's bodies based on their genitals. A person's body doesn’t change who they are or who they know themselves to be. If I thought you were stupid enough to be unable to handle that concept, I’d give you the simple version of ‘you know who you are in your heart and your brain, not from your body and my brain developed male,’ but you’re not as much of an idiot as you come off and it would be a disservice to treat you like you were. Gender is more complex than that. But when it comes down to it, if you were to polyjuice with the body of a cisgender woman you’d still know that you, internally, are a man. So imagine from my perspective where I have known I was a man for a long time, and so many other people could only see me as a woman until I started changing my body to fit with my own concept of myself.” 

Harry met Draco’s eyes. “Ultimately, what I’m saying is that’s still a possibility for you if you don’t want to do it the scientific way with in vitro fertilization--though either way, Tom’s right. You should talk to whoever your betrothed is about this. If they’re on the same page as you then you can both work together to find a solution. Unless you’re worried that her finding out you’re gay will result in her breaking the engagement?” 

“I...maybe,” Draco admitted, the tension in his shoulders betraying how deeply nervous the thought made him. “Astoria’s nice but we were never exactly close enough to discuss things like that.”  
  
“Then that’s where you should start. Maybe work on getting to know her better and seeing if she’s either willing to renegotiate the terms of your engagement, or work with you so that you’re both happy with what you’re getting into. Who knows, maybe she isn’t really that interested in getting married either.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to get married,” Draco responded, “I just...don’t know that I want to marry _her.”_

“Well, worst case scenario--” Harry cut himself off at the way Draco paled at that, recalculating what he was going to say. He didn't claim to know Draco's family, and as much as he would like to assume that Draco's parents were loving, he couldn't really imagine them being _accepting_. “Okay, how about we look at it this way. If you get to know her better you can find out if working with her is doable, or if you might need to renegotiate your engagement and find someone else who is. Tom wasn’t wrong about queer women and queer men sometimes marrying each other in order to facilitate their own freedom to love whomever they fall for.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Draco murmured, leaning back against the sofa looking a bit stunned by the influx of advice and suggestions from the two of them. 

“Well, now you will,” Harry said simply, mirroring Draco and relaxing back into his seat. He felt a bit powerful for having finally said his piece to Malfoy after so many years of heckling and fighting and bullying each other--because he certainly wasn’t innocent of retaliating in kind--and it was rather freeing to feel like they were both on equal ground in this moment. 

Draco was silent for a brief period as he mulled over what they’d said. “Thank you, both of you. I’ll...talk with Astoria a bit, and consider your suggestions. And my apologies for coming here in the middle of the night and all that, I just...wasn’t sure what else to do.” 

Harry gave a fake gasp and clutched a hand to his chest, throwing his other back in an impression of a swoon, “Did I just hear Draco Malfoy apologize? The world must be ending. In all seriousness though--I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you need someone to talk to about all this, I’m around.” 

Draco nodded as he refastened his cloak and stood. “I’ll think about taking you up on that. Maybe. I’ll leave you both to the rest of your evening. Do you mind terribly if I use your floo?” 

“Go ahead,” Harry said, gesturing toward the fireplace. 

Draco threw a pinch of floo powder on the fire and called out, “Malfoy Manor!” His cloak swirled behind him as he disappeared into the green flames, leaving Harry alone with Tom and the silence that hung between them.

Tom didn’t look angry or judgmental, or anything like that at all. He seemed contemplative. 

“Did you know?” Harry asked as he felt his insides twist with anxiety. “About me?” 

“I did not,” Tom acknowledged, tipping his head forward. “I suspected you were hiding something and that was fairly obviously confirmed the other evening when I cleaned you up after your excursion to the cellar. Perhaps something in the vein of body modification or a defect of some sort that you were afraid of me seeing, but I understand your hesitancy now.” 

“And?” 

“And what?” Tom questioned, looking a bit puzzled. “It is what it is.”

“That’s all you have to say?” 

“What are you expecting me to say? You’re no less a man than you were thirty minutes ago, if that’s what you’re questioning. I’m sure no-one knows who you are better than you do yourself, so it shouldn’t be something to question or consider over when you already have your answer.” 

“You don’t care,” Harry said slowly, his own words sinking in. “You don’t care at all.” 

“Why should I? It has no impact on me.”  
  
“But you just...accept it? Just like that?” 

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Tom asked, turning to face Harry and pausing at the expression on his face. “Ah. You did, then.” 

Harry’s face cracked. “I...you can never tell how people are going to react when someone’s...different.” 

Tom fixed Harry with a scrutinizing look, then stepped closer. “This is very important to you, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Harry choked out, trying to fight down the feeling of his heart twisting in his chest. “I came a long way to get to this point and I’ve...lost people, sometimes. Who didn’t take it well.” 

“You were afraid,” Tom murmured, reaching out and cupping Harry’s cheek as he looked anywhere but at Tom’s eyes, “you thought that I would reject you.”  
  
“There isn’t anything between us for you to be rejecting,” Harry mumbled, but it was a weak protest.  
  
“Oh come now, you and I both know what a lie that is. There’s always been something between us, though you are forever reluctant to acknowledge it,” Tom murmured, dragging his thumb over Harry’s lower lip. His breath stuttered in his lungs as his eyes shot up to meet Riddle’s. “See?” Tom whispered, “Right there, that look in your eye. Like you want me to tear you apart.”  
  
“You’re distracting yourself from your grief by focusing on this.” The accusation was quiet but no less clear.  
  
“It is regrettable that Abraxas has passed, but I don’t grieve for him as much as I grieve for what we have both lost, the lives we could have had versus what we found.”

“But wasn’t he your friend?” 

Tom’s lip curled. “It may seem an alien notion to you, Harry, but I didn’t have _friends._ I had allies, associates, and those who followed my political views. People aligned themselves with me for a variety of reasons, but none of them was for bonds of comfort or companionship.” 

“I have a feeling Abraxas Malfoy would beg to differ with that.”  
  
“I don’t believe you should assume anything about how Abraxas would have thought,” Tom retorted, cutting Harry off. “You do not know him as I did.” 

“No,” Harry said slowly, “I suppose I don’t.” There was an underlying tone hinting at a quiet, repressed violence that had him stepping back from Tom. Harry knew he was right; Tom was trying to distract himself rather than think about his loss, and Harry denying him that distraction made him angry and bitter. Harry wasn’t the sort to allow himself to be used like that, though. Not under these circumstances. And so he stood his ground. “I’m still not going to fall into your arms at the drop of a hat after such a serious conversation. Take some time, Tom. Give yourself that much at least to process it, and we can go from there.” 

Riddle looked like he was about to argue, then thought better of it. He turned sharply on his heel and gracefully sank into the seat nearest the fireplace, determinedly ignoring Harry.  
  
It was childish really, but Harry knew that even if Tom didn’t regret it, _he_ would if he allowed something to happen solely out of reaction to the news of the elder Malfoy’s death. Secure in the solidity of his conviction, Harry dropped into the chair opposite Tom’s, watching him carefully. 

“What is it?” Tom said finally, breaking the silence. 

“An apology would be nice,” Harry said pointedly. 

“Whatever for?” 

“For using whatever feelings I may have towards you to try and get me to romantically engage with you solely as a distraction from your own misery, that would be a start.”

“And what is so wrong with distracting ourselves? Is my acceptance of your refusal not enough?” 

“Would your tongue fall out of your mouth if you said the words ‘I’m sorry’?” Harry questioned, unimpressed, then sighed. “I’m not going to push it right now. But I’m not going to put up with that kind of shit, Tom. If you do something like that again, I really will leave. For good. You don't get to manipulate me like that.” 

Tom didn’t need to know that he didn’t really mean it. The threat itself would hopefully be enough to deter him. Harry doubted at this point that he’d ever really be able to leave this place, but pretending that he would did have its benefits. 

Riddle didn’t respond to Harry’s ultimatum, instead turning back to the fire. Harry let the silence between them hang as he mulled over Tom’s response. It seemed that he considered Harry’s own gender to be entirely inconsequential to him, but whether it would impact his behavior towards him in the future remained to be seen. Harry doubted that Tom truly understood how important this was to him, or how difficult it had been to reveal, but perhaps time would allow that to sink in. More likely than not though, his interest would fade now that he knew, as had happened to Harry so many times before with others. 

That being said, they’d both had some rather intense revelations today. It certainly wasn’t nothing to realize that your closest friend has been dead for many years. “Are you alright?” Harry questioned carefully, curling his fingers around the ends of the chair’s arm rests. 

“Of course,” Tom responded automatically. 

He clearly wasn’t. Tom continued to stare off into the fire moodily, and Harry settled back in his seat and gave Tom what space he needed to process while keeping him company. It was little surprise that the warmth of the hearth fire lulled him into a deep sleep curled up in the chair, unable to focus on the flickering warm light silhouetting Tom against the fireplace. The chair was soft and comfortable and Harry felt secure in the knowledge that he’d managed to nullify any sense of threat that Tom had perceived from their would-be intruder. 

Harry’s dreams, however, weren’t free of threat. Though his mind meandered through a number of disjointed, scattered imaginings, there was an overarching sense of unease that permeated even the sweetest of dreams and left him shifting about fitfully in his seat. Vague glimpses of a familiar child with braided red hair haunted the corners of his unconscious mind, lending fuel to a turn into the unsettling and unfamiliar as his dreams progressed.  
  
He was blearily pulled from his slumber as a sense of warmth settled around him that didn’t seem to come from the fireplace--which had long since burned down to embers--and Tom’s voice whispered, “Come on, up you get. I told you I’m not carrying you to bed.”  
  
“M’tired,” Harry mumbled, unable to find the energy or will to bother opening his eyes. The blanket Tom had covered him with shifted as he pulled it up more solidly around himself, turning his face against the soft cushion of the chair’s back and snuggling in.  
  
Tom let out a huff--Harry couldn’t tell whether it was annoyance or amusement, but the result was much the same. “Fine then, but don’t complain to me when you wake with a crick in your back.” 

Harry mumbled something half-formed in response, cracking his eyes open just enough to see Tom’s tall, unnaturally thin figure stirring up the glowing embers in the fireplace and setting about coaxing the last few guttering flames to catch on the fresh branches and bits of old newspaper he’d tossed in.  
  
“You don’t have to do that, I’ll head up soon,” Harry slurred, struggling to keep his eyes open.  
  
“Of course you will,” Tom responded, clearly not believing him, “And I’m sure the house elves won’t find you down here frozen solid in the morning, either.”

“You have so much faith in me,” Harry yawned, stretching a bit and resisting the urge to sink back into his warm, comfortable chair.  
  
“I have faith in you where it matters,” Tom corrected, setting aside the iron rod he’d used to adjust a small log on the rising flames. 

“Guess that’s good enough,” Harry agreed, a sleepy smile spreading across his face as Tom turned to face him. “Alright, alright, I’m getting up,” he said, giving in to the narrow-eyed judgmental stare that Riddle fixed him with as he waited with arms crossed for Harry to move. “Don’t you have anything better to do than heckle me?” Harry teased as he stood from his chair and stretched, wincing a bit as something in his shoulder popped.  
  
“Not really,” Tom responded, unimpressed.  
  
“Okay, you’ve made your point.” 

Harry hugged the blanket that Tom had most definitely draped over him while he slept, wrapping it tightly around his shoulders as he made for the staircase and trudged up to bed. Tom ghosted along behind him, pausing to lean against his bedroom door frame as Harry tiredly kicked off his mud-encrusted boots and flopped back onto his mattress with a contented sigh.  
  
“You did well tonight.”  
  
“Hm?” Harry’s eyes fluttered open and he glanced up as Tom crossed the room to his bedside. “Oh, with Malfoy? Thanks. He wasn’t much trouble, really,”  
  
“No,” Tom agreed, “but the evening would have ended quite differently had I been the one responding to the intrusion.”  
  
Harry’s heart seemed to crawl up into his throat and form a tight knot at the thought. Just the fleeting memory of Riddle’s near-inconsolable rage from earlier that same day had his mind producing rather horrific images of the fate that Malfoy may have found if Harry hadn’t been the first to find him. Would he have ended up drowning in sludge in the bowels of the house, like Harry suspected a number of others had? Or would he have been torn limb from limb, his body left out in the woods for the animals to pick over? Would there even have been anything left to identify him when Tom was through?  
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, forcing down the unsettling chill that had passed through him at the thought, “I’m sure it would have.”  
  
Tom was dangerous. He was violent, if provoked. He’d have to get proper wards up on the property fast. Harry doubted that the next person to trespass would be as hapless and easily handled as Draco had been and this could get very, very ugly if any of these disappearances were linked back to Riddle by the ministry at any point. He could easily imagine the heavy-handed reaction of the wizarding government to such a discovery. It would be rushed and designed to crush any potential threat before any real investigation had been done into circumstance or alternatives, and Tom--and anyone who tried to ‘handle’ him--would suffer the consequences of a move that couldn’t be taken back or undone. 

“You did well.” 

“Huh?” Harry blinked, pulling himself up from the mire of his thoughts to find that Tom had fixed his red-eyed stare on him. He couldn’t quite tell his expression beneath the smoke that clung to his form, but the respect in that small admission spoke for itself. “I...oh. Well. Thanks,” Harry stumbled out.  
  
“It was easy this time,” Tom continued on, “it will not be so simple next time.” 

“Probably not,” Harry agreed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“I hope you are prepared for what may come,” Tom murmured, “Goodnight, Harry.” 

“Goodnight, Tom,” Harry echoed back, though the room was empty by the time the words left his mouth.   
  


* * *

  
Harry awoke to soft, dim morning light filtering through the bedroom curtains and thick swirls of frost gathered on the window panes. Despite being awake late into the night, he felt more rested than he had in some time, and he quickly put that burst of precious energy to use. 

He could already tell that working from home was going to be an entirely different experience. Harry was accountable to no-one but himself for what time he woke, what time he started working and what time he chose to stop, and Harry knew that if he didn’t set some kind of schedule for himself he’d get complacent about the lack of structure far too fast. A small part of him wondered how bad it would be to let things slide a little bit, to drop just a small fraction of the endless caseload that he typically churned his way through--he certainly wouldn’t be focusing on Riddle’s case alone, there were too few Aurors stretched far too thinly as it was already for him to take on what most would consider to be a vanity project--but the thought was dismissed even as it entered his head. There were a lot of people out there looking for answers to questions that had gone untouched and unresolved for years, sometimes decades, and he had a responsibility to them all. 

That thought was more than enough to get Harry up out of bed, rushed through a quick hot shower, into a clean set of clothes, down the stairs and into the kitchen to start fixing a proper breakfast. When he arrived he found that Yobbie was already up and halfway through a simple breakfast of his own.  
  
“You’re up early,” Harry noted as he set about brewing himself a cup of coffee.  
  
“I’m always up this early,” Yobbie responded simply, slicing a piece off an apple and popping it in his mouth. “You aren’t, though,” he said, his gaze flicking to the bags under Harry’s eyes. “Morning paper’s on the dining table if you want it, I already fed the feisty bag of feathers you call an owl.”

“Thanks Yobbie,” Harry said as he lit the stove burner and prematurely cracked an egg into the still-cold frying pan.  
  
Yobbie gave a curt nod, but his eyes lingered on Harry. “Any reason for it?”  
  
“I’m getting back to work but I’m going to be doing a lot of it using the house as a base rather than my ministry office. Things weren’t working out with getting settled back in there, so I’m trying something different.”  
  
“So this is you...turning over a new leaf,” Yobbie said critically as he carved another slice of apple for himself, the paring knife flashing with expert speed in a deft hand as he held the apple in a sturdy grip with the few fingers that worked on the other.  
  
“Trying to, at least,” Harry agreed, internally cursing that he’d forgotten to grease the pan before dumping an egg into it. His morning preparations were off to a great start.  
  
“Habits and schedules are all well and good long as you can stick with them,” Yobbie acknowledged, then paused to study the half-eaten apple in his hand. “You’ve got to be prepared for change when you least expect it though.” 

“That’s true,” Harry said, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s part of what keeps my work exciting. Never know what’s going to happen next, really.”  
  
Yobbie nodded. A comfortable silence settled between them as Harry began valiantly attempting to salvage his fried egg by carefully working a spatula underneath where it stuck to the pan with mild success.  
  
“I need a raise,” Yobbie spoke up suddenly.  
  
“Sure,” Harry agreed immediately. The look of surprise on Yobbie’s face at his unquestioning agreement made his heart twist. “You deserve to be paid a good wage for all the work you do around here. Do you think Pella will accept a raise too? Maybe we can set up savings chests or something for both of you. Next time I drop by Gringotts I’m going to see what their rules are regarding creating new accounts and if we can get ones set up for you and Pella. I’m happy to keep paying you directly if that works better, but you both should have somewhere proper to store your funds that you can access them whenever you need.”  
  
“I need a couple days off, too,” he added carefully, clearly gauging Harry’s reaction to the further request.  
  
“Take whatever time you need, you don’t need my permission to leave and attend to your own things,” Harry said with a smile. “You and Pella have your own life beyond everything you’ve done to help me repair this place. I’m not going to penalize you for having your own wants and needs. If there’s anything I can do to help out, let me know.” At the mistrustful expression on Yobbie's face, Harry sighed and gave up on his eggs, leaning against the counter next to the stove. "I meant it when I said that you are both free here. I will do whatever I can to meet yours and Pella's needs."  
  
"Why?" Yobbie questioned, his words coming fast and bitter, "Everyone says it, I'm lame and old and of little use--"   
  
"When did you start listening to all the horrible things wix have said about you, Yobbie?" Harry interrupted. "You're a sentient creature and you are worthy of just as much respect as any human. The fact that humans have treated you with anything less than equal respect is a moral failure on all their parts. I know that I'm only one person and I can only do so much, but I think it's long past time that wix started taking responsibility for the violence they've directed towards other magical species, and the first step of that is making sure that every elf we can has a safe home, reparations for the systemic violence against you, and whatever stability wix can offer you to make sure that your life is a fulfilling one. My friend Hermione told me ages back that house elves are supposed to live symbiotically with humans. That tells me that whatever you do for me should be equally repaid and respected. And I want you to know. You _don't_ owe me anything and I have no expectations of some kind of repayment for freeing you. You don't need to ask my permission to do anything. You have control over your own life and how you live it now. And--after everything you've been through, I don't blame you if you don't ever trust another wizard again in your life. You don't owe me that, either."   
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yobbie agreed in a tone that said that he didn’t entirely believe what Harry was saying, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to accept him at his word. Yobbie pulled up a stool to the stove and stood on his tip-toes to glance at the mutilated egg in Harry’s frying pan. “There’s some fresh bacon from the butcher’s in the ice box. Fry that up and then fry the egg in the grease after and it won’t stick.”  
  
“Thanks Yobbie,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment as the elf hopped down from the stool and left the room. Harry took his advice and soon enough had a passable breakfast thrown together. Growing up his dad had always done the cooking, and Harry had never really taken a great interest in learning to make his own food when it was usually done for him. Sure he knew the bare basics of cooking, but not well enough to make anything that required real effort on his part. He wondered absently if Pella would mind sharing a few tips and tricks with him as he brought his plate to the dining table and sat down, pulling the paper across the table to read. Barnabas hooted at him from his perch on the back of a chair until Harry fed him a bit of bacon. 

Yet another article was plastered on the front page of the newspaper that stank of Skeeter’s handiwork. The article detailed the failings of the DMLE to provide adequate protection to wizarding families and accused the department of not even having a suspect in the child killings. Phrases such as “blatant ineptitude” and “willful negligence” blared from the page accompanied by photographs that Harry himself had pondered over for months at a time--it was moments like these that had him wondering where the department leak was that had released the graphic images to the papers back when the case had first presented itself. The Daily Prophet certainly had no qualms about exposing the public to the images, but it made Harry’s stomach roll a bit when he thought of families opening up the morning paper to image after animated image of Aurors swarming around a small, unmoving body as they attempted to clear the crowd that had gathered upon her discovery.  
  
Harry folded the paper over on itself just as Tom swept into the room, forcing a feeble smile as he set the news aside and focused on his cooling breakfast. “Tom, I don’t usually see you up and about this early in the day, and--” he paused as he took in Tom’s presentation. Gone were the wisps of smoke that obscured his shadowed face. The long, ashen robes that fluttered behind him as he walked had been replaced with a clean-cut tweed vest over a neatly-pressed cream-colored button-up. The heels of finely-polished boots clicked on the floor as soft brown eyes met Harry’s from beneath long, dark lashes. “--you look different,” Harry finished lamely. Any response he could think of didn’t seem to quite encompass how striking of a figure Tom made as he paused in the doorway before gravitating to Harry’s side.  
  
“I felt it was time for a bit of a change from the usual,” Tom dismissed, trailing his fingers over the newspaper folded beside Harry’s plate and casually swiping it, “you however look like you just saw a ghost,” he teased, fixing Harry with a mischievous smile. 

“I don’t know if you count towards that anymore--hey, I was reading that!”  
  
“More like you were giving it a thousand yard stare while your mind was miles away from here,” Tom corrected, “Now what’s got you looking like death warmed over, hmm?” With that he drew his gaze to the paper as he flipped through and settled immediately on the photographs. “Oh, an ongoing Auror case?” His eyes widened slightly as they flicked from photograph to photograph slowly, then narrowed. “How interesting,” he hummed, an amused smile curling his lips as he began to read the article.  
  
“What about it’s interesting? It’s horrible,” Harry retorted, moving to snatch the paper back. Tom held it just out of his reach, raising it above his head.  
  
“Let me look,” he insisted, stepping out of Harry’s reach and resuming his perusal of Skeeter’s article. “You would see it as horrible,” Tom tutted as he flipped a page, “I see it as sloppy. Inefficient.”  
  
Harry’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. “What?”  
  
“Clearly this is the work of an amateur necromancer. They’re efficient with the act of killing them, yes, but they’re going to rather elaborate lengths to hide their sloppy work. The bodies are relatively visually undamaged except for the broken necks and any organ removal done on these later ones was likely a posthumous afterthought, but turning that last one into an inferi is an obvious attempt to misdirect while also displaying some amount of necromantic skill--they were likely nearby when it was set loose, they don’t seem like the sort to be skilled at long distance control.” 

“You think it’s a necromancer? How--” 

“Well the inferi is an obvious giveaway, but the article mentions ‘multiple organs missing from the corpses’ which suggests harvesting for spells, rituals, potions, and typically human parts are only used in very specific types of magic that venture into the realms of necromancy more often than not. If they’d been drained of blood for example, this would be a different matter entirely..”

“You’re sure about this,” Harry hissed, reaching out to grasp at the silken fabric of Tom’s shirt, “You’re absolutely certain that they’re a necromancer?”

“Well I wouldn’t say I’m unshakably certain, but I’d say that when you observe the basic facts at the root of the situation, it sounds like you’ve got a budding necromancer on your hands. If it looks like a dog and barks like a dog, it's probably a dog,” he concluded.  
  
“If I looked this up is that what I’d find?” Harry asked breathlessly, fingers curling in the fabric of Tom’s shirt until the illusion threatened to tear, “That we’re dealing with a necromancer?”  
  
“Well they’re not a very _good_ necromancer, or an experienced one. Any seasoned necromancer worth their salt will show proper respect to the bodies of the dead they handle, while this person literally put them out with the garbage. The way they’re being killed is a tip-off, but the organ removal cinches it. Think about it. If this person was killing for pleasure there’d be more obvious signs, likely in the mode of death as well as to the body itself. No, they’re killing _for_ the body, and a specific body type considering how similar all these girls look,” Tom posited as he flattened the paper over the table to the article’s second page to reveal the lineup of all the girl’s photos. “I doubt this one was their first kill, either,” Tom hummed, fingers tapping over Patricia Weasley’s smiling face, “it’s so easy to kill with magic, and twice as easy to cover it up. This person is leaving the bodies to be found for a purpose. A message, perhaps.” 

“But you’re sure, you’re _positive_ it’s a necromancer.”  
  
“Would I ever lead you astray by bloviating about something I didn’t understand? Harry, if there’s anyone whose opinion you’d question on such matters I wouldn’t think it would be that of a scholar such as myself. I dedicated my very life to the study of magic--particularly of forbidden and illegal spellwork. I would _know._ Not that it matters much, the opinion of a dead man counts for little toward such things and you couldn’t exactly traipse into the ministry shouting about how the lingering remains of Tom Riddle told you that this killer is a necromancer. Well, not without the right literature to back it up,” he added thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his lips as he considered the situation. He rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder as he leaned down to slyly whisper, “Literature which coincidentally happens to exist just down the hall in the library where you could easily have stumbled upon it in your little housekeeping adventures. Perhaps you even received an anonymous tip that told you where to look.”  
  
“This could be groundbreaking,” Harry breathed, shooting up from his seat at the dining table, “Where are the books you’re talking about?”

“In a rush are we?” Tom questioned with obvious entertainment. 

“You don’t understand, this used to be _my_ case, and that first girl is Ron’s niece! This is the first solid clue we’ve had in months if you’re right!”  
  
His feet couldn’t carry him to the library fast enough. Tom followed behind him at an unhurried pace, a mildly curious expression on his face. “This is important to you then?”  
  
“One of the most important,” Harry affirmed as they rounded the corner into the parlor, where the entry to the library lay waiting for them. He stopped short just before the double doors as they came into view alongside the small, pallid form of Patty Weasley standing in front of them. 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The floor seemed to pitch and heave before him as his stomach threatened to turn. He fought down his rising nausea at the sight of her bloodshot eyes and bruised throat, his mind racing.  
  
Tom came to a stop beside him, fixing him with a look of concern. “Are you quite alright? You’re behaving erratically.”  
  
_He couldn’t see her._

“You can’t see her, can you,” he confirmed, a tremor working its way up his spine at the thought. 

Tom was visibly perplexed. Harry watched the humor melt from his face as he asked, “See who?” 

“The...the girl standing there, in front of the doors.” 

The specter frowned. “Harry, I can assure you that if there was anyone else on the manor property, I would know.” 

“Even if they’re a ghost too?” he questioned, internally cursing the way his voice shook.

“Even then.” 

Tom rested a hand once again on Harry’s shoulder. His grip was firm and steadying as he guided Harry forward, past the little girl who stepped aside, watching Harry intently with wide, bloodshot eyes as they walked into the library. 

He was going mad. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Everyone had been watching him as they held their breath, waiting for the signs, and here it was. 

“There are many ways to communicate with spirits, you know,” Tom said casually as he wandered down one of the rows, trailing his fingers delicately along the cracked spines of old books. “If there’s someone or something that you feel is lingering, you can reach out to them. Wizards only think of the most visible form of ghost when they think of spirits but there are many more out there that are not visible to the naked eye or that exist between worlds. If you have the right tools, you could--”  
  
“She deserves to rest,” Harry said, cutting him off. “She’s been through a lot.” 

“Then would it comfort you to confirm that she is at peace now?” Tom questioned as he paused at one book and carefully pulled it from the shelf, flipping through it absently. 

“I...maybe, I don’t know,” Harry muttered, turning away. 

“It is one of the children from the paper that you’re seeing, isn’t it?” 

“How can you be so...so casual about--” 

“Seeing things that aren’t there?” Tom asked, turning to face him, “Harry, we live in a world where anything is possible. Why wouldn’t it be possible that there is something to whatever it is you are seeing that I am not? There is so much about this world--about magic, too, that even I cannot begin to comprehend, but that doesn’t make those things any less real or true.”

“...and if I _am_ just seeing things?” Harry croaked out, unable to tear his eyes from the floor and unwilling to look back towards the doorway to confirm if she was still there. 

“Then we will deal with it,” Tom said simply. Harry tore his eyes from the floor and looked up to find Tom watching him with the sort of serene patience one can only find in death. “I can assure you that no matter where you go, Harry, you are never alone. The least I can offer you is peace of mind in exchange for what you’ve done for me.” 

Just past Tom’s shoulder Harry caught sight of small fingers curling around the edge of a bookshelf. “You’d do that?” he asked, eyes darting back to Tom’s. 

“Of course. I’ve done it for many before you. I’m something of a specialist, after all.” 

“A specialist,” Harry said slowly. It seemed as if he could hear his own heartbeat, thrumming urgently in his ears. “Tom, are you telling me that you’re a necromancer?” 

Tom fixed his gaze back on Harry, looking up from the growing pile of books in his arms. “How do you think I managed to find myself in this state? Do you _really_ think it was purely by accident?” 

Oh yes, how could he have gotten so caught up in the excitement of this revelation that he’d forgotten? Tom was a necromancer, the very same as the person who killed Patty and the other children and dumped their bodies in the trash like they were garbage. And Tom had as much as told him that he’d killed before. How many of the missing persons case files that had passed across Harry’s desk had been because of him? He’d known (theoretically) that Tom had killed before, and it had felt that much more real to see his reaction in real time to someone trespassing on the property, but Harry knew that necromancy required in-depth study and exhumation of the dead and dying. You needed bodies for that, both living and dead. 

_I told him I'm judging him on who he is today, not the person he was in life,_ Harry thought furiously to himself, fighting down the dark swirl of thoughts that were fighting their way to the forefront of his mind. _Never mind that who he was in life is an even bigger mystery than why he is this way now. Though maybe less a mystery than I thought--Tom seems to already know the reason._

“I have always aimed to become something greater than myself, Harry. And what is there that is greater and more terrible than death itself?” Tom frowned at Harry’s horrified expression. “Harry, you do realize that you yourself have likely used necromancy to explore crime scenes, confirm deaths, find traces of bodily fluids, track a missing person and such, don’t you? Aurors like you have those spells because of people like me who shared them. If you’re concerned over legalities you needn’t be, my studies were government sanctioned.” 

“WHAT?” 

“There’s no need to _yell_ , Harry. As someone who enforces the law I’m sure you are aware that laws themselves, like magic, lack a moral compass of any sort. I am not required to moralize to you the reasons for my practicing, you merely need to know that the work I did in my lifetime was entirely legal. That should be enough for you as a part of the ‘long arm of the law’, shouldn’t it?” 

“You’re telling me that the Ministry _sanctioned and endorsed_ a practicing necromancer?” 

“Yes,” Tom agreed simply, shutting the book he’d been flipping through with a ‘snap’ that seemed to echo through the library. “I published a series of studies and a book anthology about my work, though they’re all quite banned. I got dispensation from the Department of Mysteries after expressing interest in joining their ranks and then traveled around the world studying under a variety of different masters before returning home to start applying what I’d learned to the study of life and death as a contractor. Due to the nature of my work I couldn’t very well be banned from speaking about that aspect of what I was doing as I alongside my fellow scholars in the field needed to be able to communicate in order to make any progress, but I was banned from telling anyone that I was working for the ministry,” Tom said smoothly, lips curling back in a sharp-toothed smile. “Funny, how they think that ‘I will maintain my silence on this matter until I draw my last breath’ is an airtight contract.” 

“Let me get this straight. You went to the Department of Mysteries, somehow got them to meet with you, and you…”  
  
“Proposed the idea that I could give them access to an understanding of magics they’d never get direct dispensation to even begin to explore in exchange for granting immunity, and they took the offer? Yes. It had to be cleared with the Minister of course, but in the wake of Grindelwald’s terror it wasn’t hard to convince them. The Ministry as a whole was looking for any tool that would get them ahead of the curve should another such individual rise to prominence.” Riddle picked another book off the shelf. “I think we have enough here for what you need.” 

“But why would the Department of Mysteries even accept such a--”  
  
“The politics of the Ministry departments themselves are quite different depending on who you are addressing, Harry, I’m sure you know this. The Department of Mysteries is full of people like myself who value knowledge and understanding above all else, some to the point that they’d do anything to obtain it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this now?” Harry questioned, dumbstruck. All he could do was follow along as Tom swayed out from among the bookshelves and led him to a nearby table, releasing the pile of books onto it and turning back to face him.  
  
“To put it frankly, I didn’t trust you.”  
  
“...and you do now?” 

“Somewhat more than I did when we first came across one another, certainly,” Tom agreed, “not that you can do much of anything with the knowledge at this point. You are a cog in the machine itself and I doubt you have the capacity to make any significant change as you are now.” 

“Then why? Why _me_ ? You have any number of people begging for your attention, actively looking for you even!”  
  
“Because, Harry.” Tom closed the distance between them with a slow, predatory gracefulness that left Harry transfixed. A bloody, flickering red that hinted at the fire beneath the illusion of Riddle’s humanity seeped into the warm, earthen brown of his eyes. “You, unlike _any_ of those weak, desperate fools who sought to use my power to their own ends, have potential.” 

A bitter laugh tore its way out of Harry’s chest. “I have potential? Where? I’m a commiserate fuckup, Tom, who’s probably adding ‘batshit crazy’ to my long list of failures and shortcomings.” 

“If only I could hold a mirror to your supposed flaws, perhaps you‘d come to see what I do,” Tom murmured, the backs of his knuckles brushing over Harry’s cheek and tucking back a strand of his unruly hair. “But whether you see it or not, you still have the makings of greatness in you.”

“What use is greatness to me? I don’t want to be ‘great’, I just want to be respected,” Harry retorted, his words biting. “And it doesn’t make me feel like you respect me, when you hang your expectations over my head and refuse to explain yourself.” 

“Expectation is different from recognition of what and who you could be, Harry. Tell me, did you always want to be an Auror, or did you merely follow in your father’s footsteps like everyone believed you would?” Harry’s eyes widened to their limits and a snarl hung on his lips even as Tom’s gaze pinned him where he stood. “Harry, you could be so much more than that if you only would open yourself up to the idea that you have changed since you first set out on this path, and that you have it within you to shift your direction down an alternate route before this one hits a very permanent dead end.”

“And what route would that be, one that you dictate? Are you trying to coax me to follow you into the dark, Tom?” 

“Harry,” Tom murmured, stepping forward until Harry was overwhelmingly and acutely aware of the near-unbearable heat that accompanied his presence, “You haven’t realized it yet, have you?”  
  
“Realized what?” he snapped, closing the distance between them and glaring right up at the specter before him. The paper-thin illusion of humanity seemed to rip at the seams beneath close scrutiny; there was something very decidedly inhuman about Tom’s posture and expression that threw it all out of balance. His eyes were just a bit too unnaturally wide and bright as a secretive, sharp-toothed smile cracked his face in two.  
  
“You’re already in the dark, right here with me. It’s everywhere around you, and it flourishes within you. You have been fighting the call for some time, long before you or I ever met. And you know why that is, Harry? It’s because something in you _knows_ that there is far more magic in this world than meets the eye and it sings to you just as it did to me.” Tom laughed at the thought, leaning down until Harry could feel the heat that roiled white-hot beneath his skin. “You’ve seen the tip of the iceberg, and something in you is just _aching_ to dive into the murky black and find the behemoth that sleeps beneath the water’s surface.” 

Whatever retort Harry could have conjured died on his lips, leaving the taste of something putrid on his tongue. There was a sense of creeping dread curling its way up his spine and wrapping thick, ropy tendrils around his skull. Harry had known fear as a close companion for many years and in many different shapes and forms. This was different from what he’d experienced as an auror. The paralyzing terror he felt in this moment was directed not at some outside assailant or uncompromising circumstance, but at himself, twisting in his gut coupled with a sharp, sickly-sweet thrill of anticipation.  
  
“The idea of corrupting me appeals to you, doesn’t it?” Harry realized.  
  
Tom bit back a laugh. “It isn’t a corruption as much as it is a desire to open your eyes. It’s like living your entire life in a too-small carefully-manufactured prison sold to you as safety and thinking that’s all there is, not knowing there’s a utopia waiting for you beyond its walls. There’s so much more out there, Harry. There’s so much more _here_ even, if only you were willing to embrace it.”  
  
"To embrace you, you mean," Harry hissed back.   
  
"Perhaps they are one in the same, perhaps not," Tom purred. "Oh Harry there are so many beautiful, terrifying things I could show you, if only you'd let me. But isn't this what you wanted? You've been so desperately driven since the very start of our companionship to seek out the circumstances that led to my passing."   
  
"These aren't one and the same, Tom."   
  
"Aren't they?" Tom murmured, "the only way to understand that which lurks in darkness is to embrace that very darkness and become a part of it yourself. There is a higher understanding here though, than merely light and dark. There is a world of color out there waiting for you beyond the black and white you've forced upon yourself. You'd be surprised I think, how well you'd take to it once you discard the shackles of your own preconceptions. There are answers waiting for you there, should you dare to grasp at them."  
  
Harry licked his lips unconsciously as Tom curled his hand around the back of his neck, leaning down until their foreheads barely brushed. "Are you trying to seduce me again, Riddle?" 

"Is it working?" Tom questioned, a wide, rakish smirk cracking across his lips.   
  
_More than it should be,_ Harry thought traitorously. "No," he said instead, glaring back up at the specter.   
  
"Oh, that's a pity," Riddle hummed, his nails threatening to break the delicate skin on the side of his neck as his grip tightened. "Well, should you ever wish to take me up on the offer, the keys to the information you want for your case are waiting for you when you are ready." 

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry acknowledged, ignoring the sweat beading on his brow or how his heart seemed to jump as Riddle pressed down until they could both feel his frantic pulse beneath his fingertips.  
  
"See that you do," Tom whispered, lips just barely brushing against Harry's before he pulled back suddenly.   
  
A small yelp startled Harry from the path his thoughts were beginning to meander down and he jerked away from Tom, turning sharply to find Hermione standing at the edge of a bookshelf, the library door open behind her. "I'm so sorry Harry, I didn't realize you had company..." her voice trailed off into shocked silence as she met Tom's gaze and realized that no, he was not actually a guest of Harry's.   
  
"Ah, you must be Hermione," Riddle purred, stepping gracefully away from Harry to face her. Harry realized the moment that Riddle's cool, distant demeanor snapped back into place that beneath it, Tom had known she was there long before he did. "I must not have heard the floo flaring."  
  
"I--well yes," Hermione said, straightening herself up a bit and meeting Tom's unhurried calm with as much strength as she could muster. "If you don't mind, Mr. Riddle--that is who you are, isn't it--I have a few things I need to speak to Harry about," she announced, her sharp gaze sliding past the specter and over to Harry. 

_Oh yes,_ Harry realized, _there was certainly much to discuss, judging by the thinly-veiled outrage on Hermione's face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays to all who celebrate! It's been a wild holiday season for me especially with the complication of the pandemic and some health concerns in the midst of all this, but I finally can say I feel somewhat satisfied with the way this chapter turned out. I hope that everyone is doing alright this season, I know it's difficult for a myriad of reasons to be separate from those closest to us during the holidays. 
> 
> I look forward to hearing what you all think of this one, it was very difficult to write and I wanted to make sure that I did the reveal between Harry and Tom justice. Some new pieces have been shown to be in play in this chapter that will be bringing a wealth of new complications for Harry even as other concerns are laid to rest.


End file.
